The Fallen's Sword
by Joby87
Summary: The apocalypse is here. And Dean only knows one thing: Lucifer has Sam. Exhausted and gravely injured, it is only a matter of time before Sam has no other choice. LimpSam. Angsty Dean. Dark Fic. Originally a one-shot, but now is a short-story.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** **The Fallen's Sword.**

**Began:** October 21, 2008.

**By:** Joby87

**Synopsis:** Death, War, Famine, and Conquest only mean one thing to the Winchester Brothers and they're all gunning for Sam. Can Dean save Sam before Lucifer claims his intended vessel thus bringing upon hellfire and the world's ruin? If so, will he be able to stop the angel's from carrying out their plan? Dark fic. LimpSam.

**Disclaimer:** As you all know, I do not own the characters, or the storyline. Just meddling with the bros…again. All places and new characters (e.g. the four horsemen) are made up. I have no idea what Kripke is up to or what he has in mind. So this is just what I came up with and is just an excuse for some action, drama, and a lot of limpage. _Enjoy!_

**Note:** If you cannot handle strong violence or gore, I suggest you do not read. There are a lot of disturbing images in here, plus a take on some religious matter. If you get offended easily, again do not read. Ye be warned!

**P.S.** This takes place sometime in the near future. You may decide when.

* * *

In the city, it began with a bright flash. Followed closely by a tremendous rumble. And then there were screams.

An impenetrable cloud of dust hung over the city like a veil. Despite being a sunny day in Dawson Cove, the atmosphere was dark and suffocating. The cloud lifted revealing a gulf-sized crater carved in the ground. A black tarmac ran directly at the hole, the end scorched, red-hot, and fragmented, leaning over the edge of the curve. Rock and rubble all formed around the outside, the various bushes, hooked streetlights, and sides of buildings engulfed in flames. Several cars and buses lay on their sides, upturned by the blast. Screams of terror and cries for help first began in one section of the town square and then soon were everywhere.

Tens of dozens of people: men, women, and small children, covered in blood, dust, and burns are fleeing through the streets. Many elderly left to fend for their own. Broken, mangled bodies littered the ground. Dust, debris, and glass lay scattered all along the main street. The buildings and small shops on each side are in ruins, some on fire. Others blown to bits with half of its vicinity's remains lying amongst the sidewalks. Over in the distance, a car explodes. Several screams are heard over the blast and roaring of the flames.

In the midst of the pandemonium, a large bulky bald man, dressed like a guy from _Sons of Anarchy _with the leather jacket, jeans and biker boots, stood in the middle of the street. Personifying Captain Morgan with his foot perched on the bumper of an upturned vehicle, a malicious grin kept plastered over his face as he surveyed the scene, relishing in the chaos born. A moon-shaped rusty weapon hung loosely in his meaty hand.

His time has come.

The signs were in place.

He was the bringer of death.

A loud whistling sounded from above. He looked up and watched as another one of his fireballs, shaped like a comet with a great tail of smoke and fire behind it, fell to the earth. Another flash. Another rumble. And more screams ensued. His eyes kept open, unharmed by the flare of the blast. His smile widening at the rush of brimstone ash flushing past his vessel's body, tickling its flesh almost in a pleasuring way; its toxic stench enshrouding him whole.

This was his sandbox.

A weeping man came stumbling up to him. A business clerk it seemed, his glasses broken and askew with blood trickling down the side of his face, mumbling incoherently. He extended out his hands, begging for help. The bringer of Death merely sneered lifting his weapon, slicing off the top half of the man's head. The beggar went down with a loud thud, the severed portion of his head rolling away.

Death laughed.

_This was his sandbox, and he has come to play.

* * *

_

Several hundred miles away in a little town called Ivory, it was a miserable wet night. Hail-like rains had begun to pour sometime in the middle afternoon, refusing to let up until late evening; afterward, leaving everything damp and cold. Every one of the two thousand and five hundred residents made their way inside. But it wasn't the rain that had them leave. A seemingly unnatural darkness enveloped the area, making every person's skin crawl. An unpleasant feeling developed in their stomachs, coercing them to remain paranoid, and overly cautious.

Sam and Dean Winchester, however, hadn't minded. Nothing made their stomachs crawl. Nothing ever gave them a foreboding feeling. Nothing had ever seemed to faze them much as they had seen and done more than the average person can dream. Brothers to the end, the two through the good and the bad worked as a team combating supernatural fiends and foes. Stuck knee deep in the approaching Apocalypse, the brothers carried on with their normal routine: squatting in a dingy basic service motel room all day catching up on some late research and gun cleaning.

Sam, as usual, sat at a small reading table, hunched over and in much need of a caffeine break, skimming over the latest news reports of Dawson Cove. His eyes itched with fatigue, unable to blink. A deep pensive look bore over his features, as he read and absorbed Intel about the destruction and chaos that transpired over the course of the week.

So far what Sam was able to conclude was probably more daunting than enlightening. It wasn't just Dawson Cove that mysterious and devastating disasters occurred in. A sudden famine broke out in Gilbee, Wisconsin. Many people either died of starvation or had to leave the town in search for other available supplies, resulting in becoming a Ghost Town. Theobourgh, Montana, a nice and civilized corn-manufacturing county, recently had been run over by cults and gang violence, turning the rural area into a war zone. So far thirty-three deaths have been accounted for, with the number increasing day by day. Other towns just like it within five hundred mile radius's have gone up in flames.

The most recent and disastrous was Dawson Cove. A small city, on the verge of expanding, had gone up in a mushroom cloud within a day. It was like a bomb was dropped in the center. Over a hundred have been reported dead. Chaos blossomed, people overwhelmed with panic, flooding the streets, prone to violence and murder. It was so sudden, the wreckage so vast. The authorities and volunteers don't know where to start to pick up the pieces. The cause of the devastation had yet to be determined.

The more Sam dwelled on the matter, the more he recognized the signs. One after the other after the other in a systematic sequence: the signs of the dawning End of Time took place. Each counting down to the minute Hellspawn and Hellfire was about to wreak holy Hell, ultimately in the Earth becoming one big roasting chestnut.

Guilt festered like an infected wound with the knowledge that it was he whom had started this inevitable end. It was he, the culprit whom pulled the trigger, because of his selfish desire to be the savior of the world. Instead he allowed himself to be hoodwinked into releasing the Lord and main warrior: Lucifer, the Fallen Angel from his molten cage. Since unintentionally opening the gateway, not only had he unleashed the legendary Angel, but also opened the portal for which will allow Hell to be brought forth on the earthen plain thus invoking the spiral of events heralding the future's doom.

That was just his luck!

Only Sam—the good guy—trying to do the right thing, actually went in the wrong direction. But luckily his GPS started working again, and he got back on track. But the damage was already done. It was his mess. He knew that. Since reuniting with his brother a second time, the two had been on route in tracking each and every sign, monster, preventative ritual they could find; anything to help resolve the upcoming debacle.

Now it was only a matter of where to start cleaning up. Either side of the celestial chain hadn't been helpful as to how to go about reaching redemption. So he kept at it, gaining as much knowledge as he could to be prepared. His gut instinct telling him there would be a great battle…and soon.

Dean, as usual, disinclined for news watching. The way he figured pouring over countless logs of celebrity life crises and more natural disasters, he was bound to end up in a straightjacket by the end of the week. Research was more of Sam's thing. It was a refresher to get back into the old routine. Kid brother deals with the books and tells where to shoot, and he pulls the trigger.

What Dean wouldn't give to go back to the old way? But times were different. Sam was different. He was different. Thrown into the middle of a supernatural war will do that to a man. Known as outcasts with both sides gunning for you. It was an endless black road full of bumps and potholes. A deep anger billowed and churned in his heart, spreading like a deadly disease knowing that the Angels, the side he put forth his very little faith and trust, used him and his brother as pawns into invoking the end of the world. Situations like this only proved his father correct in trusting in yourself and your family…and no one else. Especially since now, he and his brother were chosen to be the vessels for the most powerful enemies on Earth: the Fallen Angel Lucifer and the Archangel Michael.

Instead of research for a new gig, Dean opted to clean all the artillery, oil the guns, reload them and update their Supernatural protection from both sides. There wasn't any room now days for careless slip-ups. Either side was less than compliant in letting them off the hook. Though that didn't mean they were completely invisible. Sooner or later, something was going to find them. And that's why clean and loaded weapons were better than gunk-filled unloaded weapons. You never know when Barney Badass was going to come knocking.

He looked up from sticking in the plush plunger into the barrel of the 12-gauge shotgun. "Anything?"

Without glancing back, Sam shook his head, suckling on his bottom lip. "Same old. Same old. And it's getting worse. The signs are everywhere man. It's coming down to the final straw."

"Oh goodie," Dean replied sarcastically sending a strained smile. Wiping down the barrel, he asked, "Anything on about what could be next, what we gotta watch out for?"

Sam gave a pointed look. "Don't you think I would have told you by now if there were?"

Dean bobbed his head, pursing his lips in mock-irritation going back to work. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

A few minutes later, Sam let out a large infamous _Sammy Huff_. "I don't know man. Everything is happening so fast. There could be hundreds of possibilities that can go down. First we have these freakish natural disasters. Now we have people creating their own mess. It's just…I want to help clean this up, put an end to this, but _how?_ Where do I start? I mean, who knows, tomorrow some dumbass in a meth lab could set off some sort of chemical nuke and we could all be blown to bits. There goes my mission," Sam said entirely frustrated.

Dean paused in his work, grimacing. "Don't say that. Cuz you never know where those bastards are and what they come up with. Let's be a little more positive, okay?"

That comment received a glare. "Sure I'll do that," Sam replied sarcastically with a bit of an edge, "Cuz everything is just so damn peachy. I talked to Trevor a little while ago on the phone and he said he skipped out of his own town because there was nothing he could do."

"When was this?"

"You were out getting lunch."

"Oh." Dean nodded, ready to go back to cleaning. But after seeing the distraught and growing despair written all over his brother's face, it was time to do a little 'Big Brother comes to the rescue with a speech' deal.

"Sam. I know okay? It's frustrating, I know," Dean interjected calmly. "Everything's not looking too good. But if we don't think about what we can do instead of trying to stop it all happening at one time, it's gonna kill us. So it's okay. I know its worth a couple of whiskey shots every night for…but we're doing the best we can. Think of it that way. It'll help you sleep at night."

The annoyed glare never faltered.

"Okay?" Dean urged.

Sam huffed. "Fine. And yes, you're right. But I just hate having this helpless feeling, and instead all we can do is just pick up the pieces afterwards. It's not helping."

"Right," Dean agreed, "And I know how you feel. I've only looked after you for nearly thirty years. But like whoever said, it's gonna get worse before its gets better. The only thing we can do is just hang on tight and enjoy the ride."

"Whatever," Sam shook his head, rubbing his eyes. "Okay Dr. Phil, what's next?"

"Next? Hmmm, that's easy. Food. Shower. Sleep," Dean enumerated, counting off his fingers.

"All in that order?"

"Damn straight. Cheeseburger and fries are the main priority. Where've you been? Get with the program!"

"Sure, sure Ralph," Sam rose from his chair, stretching out the kinks in his back. Letting out a long yawn, he said, "Well we might be okay. As long as we stay off each side's radar, we'll be good."

The television suddenly lost reception. Both boys glanced at the flickering screen, becoming suspicious. Next the entire motel room vibrated roughly. The lampshade fell to the carpet. Decorative pieces on the walls bounced off their suspenders, shattering on impact. The table jostled and scuttled across the carpeted floor. The lights flickered on and off resembling a dim strobe-light.

Something was coming.

Dean grabbed the only loaded shotgun off the bed. Sam raced to his side, each taking one another's flanks, preparing for the entities arrival. A high-pitched ringing sounded, much like the ringing when Dean first experienced Castiel's presence. The boys covered their ears, grimacing at the shrill piercing; both emitting out small pained moans.

A second later, it was all over. The ringing, the roughhousing, all had stopped. The TV clicked back to normal with the presentation of the Dukes of Hazzard marathon. Still weary, the boys exchanged nervous glances. Yet glad the tornado was over with, it didn't help soothe their unease. No way would something have come and gone the way it did.

After a minute of nothing, each let out a long breath.

Then simultaneously the hairs on the back of their necks stood up.

"So sorry to have dropped in like this. Have I come at a bad time?" a spine-chilling familiar voice said.

Groaning, the brothers turned around, meeting Zachariah once again. The same in his black suit, pink tie, and douchebag smile. Only this time he came alone, which was odd.

Dean turned his scowl on Sam, smacking him upside the head.

"What?" Sam grumbled.

"You dumbass! You just had to go ahead and jinx us, didn't you?" Dean turned to Zach, "How'd you find us?"

The owl-like eyes widened and the bobbing of the head started. _Of course, an angel with an attitude!_ "You should be very careful about what you say in your phone conversations. You never know who just might be tuning in."

Dean scowled again at his brother, who shrugged. "And it was _so_ nice having a dick-free night. What is it this time? More recruitment lines? Michael's running out of auditions?"

Zach shook his head, giving an amused shift of the lips. "It's always the same with you Dean. Still up on that high horse, I see? I just don't get it. Why do you choose to fight this? Many would have given their lives willingly for this opportunity. But it's all yours. It is your destiny."

"Well Destiny can kiss my lily-white ass. If Destiny is watching and allowing six billion people to be massacred while you fight over a planet just so you can have your Stepford paradise, then you've got another thing coming."

"So you're willing to let others die, just so you won't allow the highest of all angel's, Our General, to fight?" the dick angel complained. "And you called us selfish pricks? Dean, you must understand it's game time. We're now on the final lap heading towards Judgment Day. There is still time. We can win this."

Sam eyed his brother earnestly, wondering what course of action his sibling was going to take. They both had their quarrels with Destiny. And who knew how each was going to fight it. Dean certainly was being quite the chipper about it, signaling his answer.

"Yeah well, it's a good thing I forgot my running shoes," Dean answered coolly, "The answer's still no."

"No?"

Dean was becoming flustered. "Yes, I said no! Do I have to spell it? If you're so gung-ho about this, then why doesn't the bastard himself come down and talk to me? Huh? If he can't, then why even bother? I said no."

That mischievous smile on Zach's face never changed. Dean couldn't help but notice that his eyes occasionally flitted off him.

Zach huffed. "Fine."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "That's it?"

"It's done. You spoke your decision."

"So it's over. No popping in from time to time. No more guilt-trips. You won't bother me or my brother about this ever again?"

"Yes," he smiled.

It all seemed surreal, that the angel was finally relenting. _Especially this angel._ Suspicious feelings walloped inside Sam, making him feel very uncomfortable. Then it struck him. "It's a trick."

Zach smirked. "Always were the sharp tack, weren't cha Sammy?"

Dean raised the shotgun up higher, threateningly. "What do you mean?"

The angel chuckled. "Sorry Dean. You missed your call a long time ago. I just wanted to see if there was still a chance. Guess not. And that's okay," his eyes roamed to Sam once more, "If we can't get what we want…then the only thing we _can_ do is to keep Lucifer from getting what he wants."

His stomach dropped and panic blossomed in his gut. He glanced at Sam with a wide expression. _Shit!_ The angel held up his fingers, ready to snap them, and no doubt take his brother with him as they had done so many times with himself before.

The douche angel never got a chance. The windows suddenly exploded from behind them. Both brothers covered their heads at the jettisoned particles and the wind blasting them forward. Thunderous hums from large car engines sounded and the next second large lightbeams shined through, cascading them all in a blinding light. Zachariah backed away frantic, screaming "Not all of them" before vanishing out of there.

His departure was not comforting in the least bit. Sam and Dean hadn't the slightest clue of what to make of it. The bright fluorescence all around the room made it difficult to see. Suddenly the sound of a revving engine occurred followed by the sound of squealing tires. The boys looked on as a White Mustang crashed through the front wall.

Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulder and hauled ass to the bathroom at the backend of the room. "Go. Go!"

The mustang continued to run rivets into the living space, knocking over the adjacent beds, rolling over the mounds of splintered walls and broken furniture pieces. It revved once more toppling the broken bed pieces, as if it were in a Monster Truck Derby, coming to the door of the bathroom.

Inside the small box, hardly worth calling a bathroom, was a window. Sam hesitated; afraid his broad muscular shoulders wouldn't have been able to fit through. However, with his balls-to-the-wall brother behind, it wasn't a matter of _if_ he could fit, it was a matter of _how fast are you gonna squeeze through._ Cuz one way or another his ass was going through. With a good push, Sam slid through the small opening with great difficulty, falling to the ground. Contrary to his exit, his brother was out in a matter of seconds. Once out of the room, they took off along the back of the building and the side of the woods.

Another crashed sounded behind them. They glanced back to see the Mustang jet-forth to the outside covered in wall debris and bricks. Once it turned in their direction, other vehicles, other Mustangs, followed. The White Mustang's headlights turned on their running frames, its engine revved up.

The boys ran fast, gaining a good distance due to their long strides. But soon the car caught up aiming to plow into their respective behinds. Sam, as a last-ditch effort, grabbed Dean by the hem of his shirt and pulled him into the edge of the woods. The Mustang skidded to a halt at the dense forestry.

In the woods and in the dark, it seemed perilous to sprint a marathon through. But it wasn't like they had a choice. On past the trees, slipping through the mud, barreling into unforeseen ground bushes and thorn pits, dodging spiderwebs, the brothers carried on like they had a purpose. Their pace had not slowed until rays of orange light shined through the scattered timberland. Trekking towards the lights, they found on the outskirts of the woods, a four-storied bricked office building with a huge perimeter fence stationed several hundred yards away. The light they saw was from a streetlight. _Thank God for small favors._

"Come on," Dean said jogging forward.

Sam followed without a word. He looked all around, glancing up and down the road that led to it. He was a bit uneasy about their next destination, a feeling of dread sprouting. It was too late to turn back as his 'quick-like-a-bunny' brother seemingly hopped over the tall fence. Still quiet, Sam climbed and was over in the time needed.

Once on the other side, they took a look at the building and learned it had to be under reconstruction or renovation due to the CAT tractors and mounds of wooden materials. A long black cord ran, leading into a set of chained double-doors.

Dean figured that was his best bet. Setting his pace at a jog again, he pried the door open a smidgeon, the best he could. "Come on. Go. Go. Go."

Sam complied ducking into the doorway. Dean glanced around at the outside first before entering. Inside was dark, the lighting from the outside giving off shadows. Before them was a long hallway. Door-less rooms appeared on each side. Everything cloaked in gray, having a sinister quality. There was nothing but an eerie silence. Looks like the boys were home!

Gasping, Dean pointed, "This way…I think."

He didn't have a clue what they were doing or what they were going to do. Running seemed like the best option so far. Turning into one of the rooms, the Winchester's decided to catch their breath. Their hands fell on their knees, as they took huge starving pants.

Dean turned to Sam with a small smile. "I think—" he gasped, "I think we lost them."

"That's good enough…for me," Sam panted, nodding, straightening up to his full height.

The wall behind them exploded in shambles with a deafening roar. A giant cloud of dust and debris hurled with enough force to send them both to their knees. The roaring settled along with the dust. In haste, Sam lifted his brother up ready to scramble out of there.

Suddenly a shearing pain shot through Sam's chest, beginning at his lower back. He gasped. A strangled cry escaped as the searing torment escalated beyond agony. Slowly he drifted his gaze into Dean's eyes. Bright flecks of blood painted all across his face, a deep look of horror plastered over it. Then he looked down to find a rusty sheath of metal protruding from his chest, just to the side of his lungs, the feeling of wood against his upper back. He instantly recognized what it was: a scythe.

In the following second, the metal tugged and Sam sling-shotted back through the aperture. The scythe was connected to a chain yanking him through the rubble from the other fallen walls.

"SAM!" Dean cried racing into the hole his brother disappeared through, following the whizzing dust and pained yells.

Clutching to the metal in his chest, Sam pushed to act against the tugging force. Blood bubbled from his mouth, staining his teeth, dribbling down his chin. He was sliding at an incredibly fast pace with Dean chasing after him calling his name.

Eventually he stopped. Pained and dazed, he quickly analyzed he was dragged to the outside of the building, a group of 340 HP 05' Mustangs surrounding him. There was not time to see who his enemies were before a chain was wrapped around his neck three times and he was lifted up.

Dean never stopped calling Sam's name. He barged through the clearing, sliding along the gravel to a stop. With dread, he lowered the shotgun by his side. He was surrounded…and so outnumbered.

Four bright Mustangs in Red, White, Black, and Silver encircled them, all resting on top of the high security fence. Sitting among the tops were four men. To the right, a strongly built French man with dark wavy hair, devilishly black eyes, a leather jacket sat on top of the White car's hood. Faintly on his right cheek was the tattoo of an archer's bow. He held in his palm a keychain with a large arrow, swinging it around his finger. _Ah, the room wrecker._

Beside him was another guy, sitting on top of the black Mustang. He was uniquely different than the first. Rather lanky, thin, balding, with a sickly hue. He wore a worn _windbreaker_ jacket mix-matching it with frayed jeans, supporting an average poor person look. Contradicting his Average Joe look were flashy high-caret diamonds hung on each ear—the lobe of one ear hanging lower than the other, giving the earrings a sort of lopsided visage; kinda like a scale.

Dean's breath hitched at the following jackass not sitting on his vehicle. A strong, bulky bald man stood in front of the silver car, yanking and jerking on the chain around his brother's neck. The man who was all muscle hoisted Sam up to where he sat on his knees and jiggled him around teasingly. Sam scrunched his eyes, gritting his teeth, pushing against the object in his chest, simultaneously pulling at the chain around his throat. Dean narrowed his eyes. He remembered that particular weapon. Alistair used it to kill that one reaper, nearly killing Tessa with it too, had he not escaped and foiled the demon's plan.

Catching the last member of the foursome, recognition sparked as he recalled the apple-red hot-rod, the man's gangly frame, the glasses he was cleaning, the suit…and his most striking feature, his missing ring finger. It wasn't too long ago they encountered this guy.

Another pang shot through his heart as he instantly figured out who and what his foes were. And if he remembered correctly, what he ascertained from his research, these were the four…the four horsemen, the bringers of pestilence, destruction, chaos…the trumpeters of the Apocalypse. The leather jacket: Conquest; Average Joe: Famine; his lovely accountant friend: War. So Baldy with the scythe holding Sam up by his neck must be the last, the caller of doom…Death.

They were going down to the last dab detail, weren't they? _Death and a scythe, how cute!_

Another ill-acquainted thought occurred to him. According to Revelations, once the fourth, the last was called, or rather after he appeared, then Hell would follow, casting down tumultuous torrents of hellfire, scorching the earth. Zach was right. The finish line was in sight. And sooner or later everyone and everything was gonna need their two-million SPF sunblock. _Great!_

However, formally meeting the group wasn't the present problem. Dean refused to lose his cool, clenching his jaw tight at seeing his brother grimace at the strain. Blood smeared all along Sam's teeth, sliding fluently down the side of his mouth.

Dean stared them all down defiantly. He hadn't a clue of how to approach this problem...or even an iota on how to defeat them. It was hard taking on one, but all four? No wonder Zach hauled ass out of there like a scared kitten. So that left his only remaining weapon: sarcasm.

"War. Nice to see ya again buddy. You look great," he said to the accountant on the Red Mustang. The man gave a genuine smirk, still cleaning his glasses. Dean turned to the others. "Let me guess. V8s. Crappy economy-style fashion. Douchebag looks. I'd say Vegas money's on that you're the four. The four telemarketers for the Apocalypse. Just please do me a favor and don't bust out the trumpets. I've had enough cliché's for the day."

"D…D-Dean," Sam garbled painfully…and in irritation, still struggling at the chain.

At that, the big brother became slightly desperate. He fanned his hands out. "Okay look, you're not the only ones whose party list we're on. Any minute now, a firestorm of angels are about to come raining down. And they once they find you here, there'll be nothing but rolling heads, burnt tires, and a really big fireworks show. You might make it. You might not."

The three on the surrounding vehicles all glanced at the bald one, evidently signifying their leader.

Dean noticed this and continued, trying to have a chance. He had to try something else. The longer he stalled, the worse Sam appeared. "We all know how this is going to end. So why don't we just skip the whole middle plot and let him go, okay. Nothing has to happen. No blood feud or nasty parts scattering all over the place. Just _let_ my brother go."

None of the four goons replied. They merely just stared with glee and triumph.

Glowering, Dean stepped forward. "I said…Let. Him. Go."

Baldy, a.k.a Death smiled, letting out a small chuckle lifting Sam up by another inch. Sam moaned with pain forcing Dean to take a step back.

"Dean," he said in a thick Cajun accent. "We've heard so much about you. And you haven't disappointed us yet."

He caught the worried glint marked in the man's eyes as he looked at his brother. His sloppy smile widened. "Oh don't worry. Didn't skewer any organs or vital parts if that's what's you're wondering," he jostled Sam some more to prove his point, "Just gotta borrow him for a bit. Dear ole Lucie needs to have a little chat with our VIP here. We'll try to keep him in one piece, we swear."

"No. No. No. Stop!"

"Sorry," the beefy guy cut in. His icy blue eyes beamed. "Orders are orders. It's Show Time and the boss needs his meatsuit. You've had plenty of chances. Time's up."

Dean's eyes widened. "NO!"

But it was too late. Sam's pleading look was the last thing he saw before the four horsemen and their vehicles were gone in a flash.

With his heart now pulsing in his throat, Dean took off at a dead sprint. He had to get to the car. He had to get to the motel. He had to do something.

"CASS…Cass!" He screamed.

The angel did not beckon to his calling. Still racing along the wet asphalt, he continued to call the angel's name until he was blue in the face.


	2. Chapter 2

(Chapter 2)

**So I see some interest. Cool Beans!! **** Well gear up, cuz in this one there is a lot of action. Oh and did I mention there will be some hurt Dean too. I hope you like it. Again I have no idea what Kripke has in store. So this is my take on what Lucifer would be like and his horsey-pals.**

It was like he popped into existence. One minute he saw his brother's despairing look, the next he was falling through air onto a wooden surface. The metal lodged in his chest jiggled from the impact hitching his breath. Coughing through the agony, Sam rolled onto his side, still clutching the scythe's blade and its chain. Loud footfalls vibrated all around him. He peered up to see the foursome all huddled in a circle, staring at him mischievously.

Panicked, Sam began to crawl away awkwardly, panting harshly as he did so. Death chuckled haughtily yanking on the rusty chain, sliding him back across.

"Now, now. Mustn't allow our catch to escape before the main entrée," he said glibly.

The others snickered at the comment.

Sam grimaced, emitting out a few moans. He was a mess. Beads of perspiration coated his face, neck, and chest. Blood exuded from the wound, seeping into his shirt and jeans. A heavy set of dizziness encroached on his mind, no doubt due to the bloodloss and shock. Apprehension slowly crept in understanding the reason for why he was brought here.

_And where exactly was Here?_ Now that's a good question.

Glancing past the entity's persons, he saw he was in a large farmhouse bedroom; with baby blue walls, appearing navy in the dim lighting projected by an antiquated lantern on a nightstand. A mattress-less wooden bedframe sat caddied next to it. Sam looked the other way catching a dresser with a few of its drawers scattered to the ground, the last remaining jutting out from the top with a few old-fashioned clothing loosely hanging out.

It occurred to him then he was in an abandoned house. If the creaky floorboards beneath him weren't a clue, then the moth-eaten curtains suspended over the window behind him had to be.

_Of course!_ Nice and secluded. A place where there would be hardly any interruptions. Sam could almost laugh at having to endure yet another cliché.

Moments later, the door slowly creaked open, dust spurting off the rusty hinges. In the doorway stood a ghostly sort of man, hollowed out, thin, and in desperate need of a good dermatologist. His skin was sallow. The sides of his cheeks sunken in. His eyes bulged out of their sockets. It appeared as though he went on a crash-course diet.

In the hallway, his identity was obscured due to the dark. Until he walked into the room, the light giving off the rest of his features did Sam instantly recognize who it was. It was Lucifer's vessel: Nick. Seemed that time and the elements didn't agree with him. Though in pain and slightly disoriented, the logical side of his brain that was still active found it rather odd that his vessel appeared like this. He was an angel; the body should be flawless. So what the Hell?

Sam's chances were not looking good.

All four horsemen smiled. War and Conquest sniggered, as the fallen angel strode towards the lot. Sam scuffled backwards, the button on his SNS flight mechanism punched in his brain. Death sneered, wrapping the chain around his bulky forearm, tugging Sam to his knees again. Sam let out several strangled coughs and groans, weakly pulling at the chain around his neck.

"Stop," Lucifer called out softly, lifting his hand in a pacifying manner. "There is no need for violence," he looked to Sam, "Nor painful coercion."

Obeying the order, Death unwound the chain off Sam's neck, taking a step back before jerking his weapon out. Sam's body jolted involuntarily emitting out a hard shriek, falling over onto his side. More blood trickled from the hole. Pressing his hand to it, applying as much force as possible, a wave of dizziness assaulted him, setting off a series of pants.

Witnessing the distress his true vessel experienced, it brought a small smile to the devil's face. Pain was a great enforcer. Kneeling beside the tremulous human, he placed a hand onto his shoulder. "I am sorry this had to be brought upon you Samuel. But I'm afraid I'm pressed for time. As you know, all the elements are in place. The signs are among us. The time has come to cleanse this world of all its impurities. It is my sole duty. And I cannot do so without you."

Sam closed his eyes, breathing deeply still clutching his wound. He had to keep his mind focused. He would not give in. He would not surrender. No matter what trick or curveball they throw. No matter what they offered, or how much more pain they inflict. He will not give up.

It was as though Lucifer read his mind. He donned a dark look. "You will give in Samuel. It is your fate. You know you cannot escape me."

* * *

Dean was still running, on down the seemingly endless dark road. He gave up calling on his fellow friend's name. There was only one thing on his mind, and he was pounding the pavement hard to get to it. He was only a couple blocks away. If he could find his way back to the motel, grab his cellphone, he could call someone and then have somewhat of a decent chance of finding Sam.

The shotgun swung heavily by his side. His leg calves screamed at the effort. His lungs worked overtime. His body was near at the end of its reserve. But he couldn't stop. His brother was in trouble…again, and this time he wouldn't fail him. The memory of Lucifer riding in Sam's body was too vivid. He couldn't relive that again.

The wind picking up, stirring the trees and foliage should have been his first clue. The sound of flapping wings whipped by him and the next thing he knew he was on the small of his back. Winded, in shock, and sore from the impact, Dean looked up to see what he had hit.

It was Cass, with his back turned. The trenchcoat was the giveaway. The scrawny angel turned around, peering down at the huddle heap.

Scowling, Dean said in a raspy voice, "About damn time! What were you doing, searching for your halo?"

The angel shook off the sarcasm. He was used to it by now. "I heard you calling, but I could not get away. What is the urgency?"

Dean hopped up, grasping the vessel by the lapels of his jacket. "What's the urgency? _I'm gonna kill you._ That's the urgency! We gotta go. Lucifer has Sam. He's got him along with his friggin pesky pack-mules. We gotta go. Zap us out of here and save him. Come on. Come on. Let's Go!"

His charge was speaking so fast, Castiel might actually have needed a chipmunk to translate. Gazing sternly into the fretful face, Cass called out in his deep frightful tone. "Dean. Slow down. Calm down. Where is Sam?"

Dean panted harshly. "Lucifer…Lucifer's got him. He's gonna try to convince him or force him to give consent…or whatever. Which means we gotta go now!"

Castiel gave a grave look. "Then it has begun."

"Cass. We gotta stop this."

"No, we mustn't. It is not within our power to do so."

"Then WHO else is going to do it? It's only us," Dean nearly shrieked, his temperature stat rising quickly.

"NO! You do not understand," the angel's tone deepened growing darker, along with his stare. "We are not prepared. Lucifer is powerful, far more than that exceeds my own. He is great at manipulation, and others I cannot describe. He will twist and turn your brother's will against him. No matter what Sam tries or how he stalls out, it only will be a matter of time. Lucifer will acquire his vessel."

Dean backed away. That was not what he wanted to hear. And it angered him further that the one and only supernatural entity he could trust was not willing to cooperate. "What are you saying, my brother's weak?"

Castiel sighed, preparing for what was to come. It wasn't easy calling out accusations. But he made his mind up about the brother a long time ago. "Yes. I know this is not what you wanted to hear Dean. But his actions with the demon Ruby have proven he can be easily persuaded."

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "No, no. Don't use that against him right now, okay? He's changed. He knows what he did was wrong, and he has proven to me time and time again he can be trusted. Don't let his past dictate what happens to him in the future, especially this future!"

"And you trust that?"

Dean's stat was near boiling point. Any minute he was about to explode, and the angel wasn't helping. "Dammit Cass, that's not the problem! He has him right now. If we can get to him _right now_, we can stop this before all this manipulation _avada kedavra_ crap happens."

"No," Cass said sternly.

Dean looked to him beseechingly, almost pleading. "Cass, you're the only option I have left."

"No. Even if I were to locate him and go, he would kill us all. Lucifer has tricks and powers beyond my recognition. You must understand this. Even if we were to save Sam now, he will come for him later. There will be no end, always running…only until Lucifer is vanquished will it end. It is too late for your brother. But we can stop it all right now. There is another way."

Dean looked up at that. "What?"

* * *

"Sammy. Wake up," someone said.

Sam's eyelids felt heavy and he was tired. God, he was tired. He didn't want to open his eyes. Only until he felt a clunk of a finger and a sharp pain at the top of his head did he pry them open.

The pairs of feet, the dim lighting, and the gaunt face of Nick the Vessel were still in place. He groaned realizing he was still living his nightmare. The wound in his chest ached; reminding him it was there every time he took a breath. He hurt. More than most pains and traumatic injuries he sustained in the past. And no doubt it was part of the devil's plan.

Lucifer balled his fist under his chin, resting his head on his knuckles, eying Sam nonchalantly. "You would like me to heal you, wouldn't you?"

_Oh well, wouldn't that be a nice thing to do. You jerk!_ A gob of blood pooled in Sam's mouth, and he spat it out; cringing at the strain it put on his system. He coughed again, blinking tiredly.

Lucie nodded. "Yes, it probably would help my stead. But as you can see, the longer I stay in this body, the more I lose my zest. So more than likely if I tried, poor little Nick would spontaneously combust and I'd end up killing you instead. Besides, the offer is still on the table. If you opt to be there for me, I _will_ be there for you. All that pain. All the guilt. All the negativity. It'll be gone. No more doubting yourself. You can finally reach your true potential…fulfill your destiny."

_Here we go again with the destiny thing._ "N-no," Sam moaned.

"I don't know how else to describe this to you," the devil pressed, "Just think of what you'll be doing for this world. You'll be saving it, not ending it. Together you and I, we can turn it back to what it used to be. Green and lively…and uncontaminated."

He lifted Sam's blood-smeared chin. "You don't like these humans, do you? These hairless apes. These animals. No, they're worse than animals. These savages. All your life, you felt like you didn't belong, that you were different. But little did you realize you were different. You were special. They never saw it. They always treated you indifferently. Especially your brother. He always had to watch out for you. That doesn't mean he cared for you."

"Y-you're w-wrong," Sam protested. He was trying to keep his cool. This was a trick.

"Really? So all that keeping an eye on you, playing Sergeant Babysitter wasn't driving you mad? You're father, in his dying wish, didn't he tell Dean to kill you? He kept you away from all this. Stopping you from becoming what you were meant to be. Doesn't he deserve to be punished?"

"I'm…not…giving…into you," Sam gasped, spitting out more blood. "So you…can take…your offer and…shove it up your ass."

Lucifer stood up to his full height, sighing in frustration. Glaring grudgingly at Conquest and War, he gave a nod. The two nodded in return, comprehending the order, both leaving the room.

* * *

"If what you say is true, then now is the time. _He_ is close. I know it," Castiel cried out, brandishing Dean's Egyptian amulet in his hand.

The stubborn angel that he is forced Dean to listen to his other plan, which was to track down and locate our Mysterious Maker. With the sensor in his hand, he knew it was a sure thing. There were many telltale signs of the Almighty circulating around a particular town. If he could find Him, then all of this would be over. However, trying to persuade the erratic man opposite of him was like trying to tame a Great White with a dog leash. Needless to say, Dean was less than thrilled.

"Get off your G.D. white horse man," Dean shouted ruefully, "If the nature loving bastard existed, then _He_ would have done something by now. If he truly gave a damn about us, then Armageddon would not be at the playoffs."

Castiel bowed his head to the side. He was surely not in the mood for one of Dean's "He does not exist" tirades.

Dean carried on at seeing the sullen look. There wasn't any time for pity-parties or ecclesiastical debates. "I'm sorry man. I can't put my faith in that, not now. Sam needs us. We can stop it right now. But I need you to help me. I need you to get me to Sam."

It was a solid thirty seconds where Dean practically begged with his own puppy-dog look. And as usual, it didn't work. Castiel glared once more, refusing to listen. "I am sorry."

The flap of the wings sounded and he was gone.

A long frustrated roar erupted from Dean's mouth. Letting loose a string of curses, Dean vowed to kick that angel's ass. Taking off again at another dead run, he came to the first car he saw, an Isuzu Rodeo, parked on the side of a convenience store located on the corner. Driverless and keyless, Dean immediately hotwired it as was his second nature. The motel should only be a couple blocks; only a few minutes.

He pulled the car on out of the driveway speeding up towards the empty traffic light. His thoughts zoned only on what was in front of him, completely oblivious to the speeding truck running up from the side. The truck smashed into the driver door causing him to smash the side of his head on the window. Glass shattered. The door creaked inward from the force, the Rodeo sliding along the asphalt in a blaze of sparks. Soon the car was put into a roll.

Eventually the car stopped lying on its top. Spitting out glass and blood, Dean blinked several times realizing he was lying on his back. The entire left side of his body was in an array of raw and bloody cuts and bruises. Dizziness assaulted his vision and he opted to stay put.

The rev of an engine brought his mind back out of disarray. Rolling over onto his stomach, he slowly crawled out of the shattered windshield, groaning and hissing at the splintered glass biting into the sensitive skin. Rolling completely out, he clutched the left side of his ribcage.

Slow and stilted footsteps were heard.

Not taking his chances, Dean achingly reached back in pulling out his beloved shotgun. Looking up he saw the approaching footsteps belonged to the French guy Conquest and his ole pal War. A small laugh escaped his raw throat. What else was new?

Pulling back the lever, Dean wasn't taking any chances. He aimed and shot. The first round of buckshot hit War. The horsemen stumbled backwards clutching the side of his face. Conquest leapt in the air landing beside his body. Dean aimed, but the gun flew from his grasp. The horsemen picked him up by his green jacket collar, head ramming his forehead.

Dazed from the hit, Dean swung awkwardly with his fist. The horsemen blocked it, thrusting a knee into his gut. The impact forced the air out of his lungs. His opponent came up for another hit. He thwarted it by throwing a punch into Conquest's abdomen, afterward letting out a wretched scream. The knuckles jammed, after what felt like punching a steel box.

The horseman chuckled, sizing him up again. That's when Dean noticed the keychain swinging off his pinky. Quickly he swung out another punch. Conquest deflected it, throwing him away onto the asphalt near his gun.

Rising to his feet, Dean laughed.

"What're you laughing at, swine?" the leather jacket sod asked in a strong French accent.

Dean's smile widened as he raised the arrow keychain from his index finger. "Lose something?"

Remembering what he had learned from War, the four had particular accessories that contained their power. For a tough dude in leather, there would be only one reason why he'd carry a keychain.

Conquest's expression turned to horror, confirming his conjecture. The man launched forward, only for Dean to lift the shotgun he held behind his back. He squeezed the trigger aiming it at the man's heart. The round hit him square in the chest. There was a gasp, a stunned look, and Conquest went down. Blood bubbled over his lips and chest, pouring over his hands.

If Dean had more rounds of buckshot, he'd let off another shot. Since he only had two rounds, there wasn't anything else to do but watch. War stood off to the side, clutching the side of his torn face. He saw too what was happening to his fellow compadre. Soon the whites of the French men's eyes were seen and he took his last breath.

Dean glowered, his brilliant green eyes falling on War. He was expecting a horrible stunned expression, possibly even a submissive bow. But all he got was a clapping applause and an overzealous smile.

"Bravo. Couldn't have done it better if I tried. Bravo," the accountant said.

Dean gritted his teeth. He was in a surly mood and this dude was at the top of his shit-list.

War grinned. "Thank you. He was a carefree pain in the patella. But don't think for a moment it ends here. Not by a long shot my friend."

That didn't sound good.

"And don't think you're fellow feathery friends will get you out of this one. The time for their annihilation is coming. You won't get far. And you can thank them by the way; if we didn't have a tracker on your dear friend Zachariah then we probably would never have found you. Ain't that a bitch?" He gloated in yet another villain monologue. The clichés never seemed to stop coming. "Well it's been fun."

Suddenly rustling sounded from the left and the right. Dean glanced behind his shoulder hearing various growls and movement echoing in the woods. He returned his gaze back on War, who just never seemed to stop grinning. "A departing gift if you will." And then he was gone in a flash.

Thunder cackled ahead in the cloudy sky. A lightning storm brewed. The rustling amplified, and suddenly Dean found him surrounded by animals: dogs, raccoons, nocturnal animals galore, cats…and to his horror, rats. Each had a particular golden glow emanating from their eyes. Foam and drool slid down all of their snouts and mouths. It was odd to say in the least. Then a certain part of his research popped in his head, answering his question.

_The four were given over one-quarter of the Earth to kill by sword, famine, plague, and by the wild beasts of the World. _

With the tingle of sheer terror undulating up and down his spine, he took a tentative step back. Softly chuckling, he emitted, "Oh Cass! Now would be a great time to come back buddy. Shhiiittt!"

A glint struck in all the animal's eyes. That was the cue! Dean took off running as one by one began a stampede after him. A vicious Rottweiler shot towards him, outracing all the others.

Dean cried out, "MUTT FROM HELL. Cass! Mutt from Hell!" Catching sight of the massive Dodge truck, he took the leap of faith and hopped onto the hood. The animals all followed suit, jumping and snarling at the sides. The rats began to climb the tires, the hood, heading in his direction. Dean used the butt end of the shotgun to swipe them off. The Rottweiler jumped against the sides snapping its jaws viciously. Other large dogs tried to, their jumping capacity failing them. The cats and raccoons had a better chance and leaping distance.

Dean continued to use his gun as a bat. He was surrounded. Even if he tried taking a risk in hopping into the truck, the animals were now inside the cab. He had nowhere to go. Finally the rotty took one massive leap, catching onto the back tire, then worked its way up into the truckbed.

"Oh shit," Dean exclaimed as the eighty pounds of teeth and muscle bounded for him. He threw his hands up prepared for another round of being a chew toy.

It didn't come.

Lowering his hands, he saw he was no longer on the truck, surrounded by critters, but on the top of a skyscraper. Glancing past the barbed fence and the height, he learned he was standing on top of the Empire State Building, recognizing the other features of New York City. The hurricane-like icy winds whipping by were another clue.

Hearing an "ahem", he whirled around fast meeting face-to-face with Castiel. The angel put up a hand motioning him to keep quiet. "Before I hear one of your annoying repartees, I ought to let you know if we are going to save Sam, there isn't much time. Here," he extended out a hand full of buckshot rounds. "If we are going to fight the devil, we're going down in style."

Still remembering his oath to give this guy one serious beat-down, Dean gave a weak smile in appreciation. "Cass man…"

Castiel put up another hand. "Don't thank me. Do you have something from one of our four friends? We'll find them a lot quicker."

Dean huffed remembering the keychain lodged around his finger. He lifted it up. "Yatzee. Now let's go get Sam."

**Oh yeah! That's right, here comes the Dynamic Duo. Lucie look out! Not really. Stay tuned to find out what happens. It shouldn't be long til I post. Reviews are love!**


	3. Chapter 3

(Chapter 3)

**Ahoy there. Here's the third part. Enjoy!**

Lucifer turned to his other two henchmen. "Go," he ordered to Famine, who agreed to take post. Flexing out Nick's hand, he scowled at the many creaks and cracks. The vessel's life expectancy was dwindling by the second. A few more strands of hair fell out. Afterward, the angel let out a great sigh. "Let's try a different approach shall we?" he snapped his fingers.

The door swung open. War and Famine entered, dragging in a person by the elbows. Sam couldn't see the man's face. Red splotches covered the spiky head, parts of his hair matted down in gunky heaps. After heaving the sagging man to his knees, War lifted the head up.

"Dean!" Sam called out weakly.

The mottled and bloody face resembled his brother. He wore the same clothes he had that day; had the same slouch; the same expressive green eyes. It had to be Dean. Only his brother would go crossed-eyed to look at the blood on his nose.

Jesus, what had they done to him? It looked as though Dean had a match with a grinder and lost. All down the front of his body were dark patches, his right arm at an angle. His face was in a daze, with blood trickling into his eyes and all over his nose, mouth, and cheeks. It sickened Sam to see him like this.

Coughing, Sam expelled, "De…no!"

The two drones dropped him. War remained whilst Famine left to take up his post, closing the door. Dean rolled over, gurgling on the blood pooling in his mouth. He gawked at Sam, pain and misery etched all in his expression…almost beseechingly like he wanted help. Befuddlement flooded through Sam like a broken dam. Dean wouldn't plead for help. There would be at least a small reassuring smile, most definitely a smartass retort, and maybe a flinch here or there. Certainly there would be no begging. So perhaps this wasn't Dean.

Lucifer concealed a smile. He came over and knelt down beside the broken body. Turning on his heal, he gazed innocently. "I'm sorry Sam. I had no intention of doing this. The angel's can be an unfair bunch."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "You're…lying," he gasped. "That's…not…Dean."

"Really?"

War delivered a swift kick into Dean's side. A loud cracked echoed along with a heart-pounding yelp. Dean rolled over clutching his side, emitting out an involuntary sob. Sam flinched. Confusion pounded into him like a nail steadily hammered in. Was this a mirage or was this the real deal? Those were definitely the sounds his brother would make under excruciating torment.

But then if the angel's had done this, then why was Lucifer continuing the torture?

The trembling figure raised his head off the dusty ground. "Do it Sammy."

A tear fell down Sam's cheek. "What?"

"Do it," Dean gasped. "Please Sammy. The…angel's can't win…What makes…you think…that everyone won't…end up…like this?"

Sam grimaced. Mirage or not, he had a point.

"Please. I'm your brother. I'd do anything for you. I died for you. I went to Hell for you. You said you'd make the same sacrifice for me…P-please. Don't let them do this."

A scowl wormed its way on Sam's wan face. He smirked resting his head back on the floor. "Nice…try."

"I'm sorry," Lucifer piped.

"That's not Dean."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

Sam rolled his head over, the smirk still present. "Dean…would never beg."

"Oh, okay," Lucifer raised his eyebrows. He raised his hand. Dean rose up onto his knees. "If he's not real, then you wouldn't have a problem with this." The man's eyes widened as he screamed out "no" before his neck twisted violently to the side. The body fell forward, plumes of dust stirred at the impact. The whites of Dean's eyes glowed like mini-lightbulbs in the dim light.

Sam gasped.

Lucifer gave a soft kick to the man's elbow. "Seems pretty real to me. So sorry. And alls well. It was your own doing. Too bad, so sad Sammy…because now you're all alone."

A niggling feeling of desolation welled up within Sam. That little stunt looked real enough, it hurt. He had to witness his brother's death all over again. Except this time, it was a lot cleaner and less screaming.

Sam gasped, the pain increasing with each second. He grimaced, not out of pain, but a cumbersome weight. He didn't know what to do. His brother. Was he dead? What Lucie was showing to him seemed so lifelike. And if so, he was alone. All alone. Again.

He glanced at the mangled corpse again. Those green lifeless eyes shined like black holes. Empty. Full of despair.

More blood dribbled over his lips. The whole southern end of his body was numb. He didn't want to believe it. Anything but that.

Lucifer leaned in, imploring deeply into Sam's bloodshot eyes. The outline of Nick's body had a particular glow surrounding it. "It's okay Sam. I need to hear it. Just one little word. Three letters and it's all over. You won't be alone anymore, and you won't have to fight anymore. What d'ya Sammy?"

Sam glared. He had enough of this guy and his shenanigans. Brother or no brother, the world was still at stake. And more than likely this little endeavor was just a ploy to get him to give consent. Well Hells Bells, he was not saying yes. It was time to die anyway. "No. Even if that were Dean, he would never tell me to give in. The…answers…still no." He smiled. He was strong. Now if only his brother was here to see that.

A deep frown formed on Lucifer's gaunt face. His eyes bulged with hate and anger as he sent a glare to his two henchmen, "I'm done talking."

Emotionless, Death scooped up the stubborn human wrapping his elbow around Sam's throat, clenching on his airway. Sam wheezed for air.

Lucifer stalked forward, shaking his head. "You know Sam. I've tried and tried again. And now I'm tired. If you won't give into a measly image of your brother dying," he snapped his fingers once more, the body of his brother fading away like a telegraphic image, confirming his suspicion it was indeed a mirage. "Then perhaps the old medieval way shall do it?"

At the nod of his head, Death shoved Sam over to War, who hooked his arms underneath his armpits. Death smiled mischievously. The icy blue eyes changed to a dark red. He raised his hand and Sam started to scream.

It felt like steel metal rods were impaling him all throughout his chest cavity. Amid his cries of pain and coughs, torrents of blood began to pour profusely from holes in his shoulder and beneath his diaphragm. Death twisted his hand into a fist. More holes opened up now in his abdomen.

Lucifer stepped up. "You distrust the angels. I _hate_ the angels. Hate my brothers. Hate my father for what He did to me. They are not winning this war. This is my time, not theirs. I've waited too long for this," he took a step back, "Continue."

* * *

Gazing out the window, Famine saw a fierce thunderstorm begin to brew. Black clouds billowed and formed over the dense trees. Lightning zigzagged across the sky, giving off a beautiful array of white and purple. Several bolts hit the earth nearby giving off a magnificent display of energy and power. There would be no rain. He could smell it. This storm wasn't natural.

Loud harrowing screams echoed from above. He glanced up at the ceiling giving a little smirk. Soon it would all be over and this world would be theirs.

Another lightning bolt struck the ground. An amazing flash illuminated the room, enveloping everything in a blinding white light. The effulgent flare died down and Famine looked on to see two new occupants in the room.

Dean developed a menacing glare toward his enemy, the sawed-off shotgun poised and ready, aimed at the man's earrings. There was a loud boom, a flash, and Famine's headless corpse rolled to the ground.

* * *

Blood and mucus erupted from Sam's throat, spilling out. He panted for more air. The pain was relentless, escalating with each breath. His whole body was numb, War the only thing propping him up. It was then he felt his arm pop out of his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head occasionally screaming out "NOOO. I won't do it!" Sam's arm began to shake. There was no reserve left. He slumped within War's confines, enduring the torture.

The glow around Lucifer's vessel brightened with each minute. He could feel it. Any minute now, Sam was about to give in. There wasn't any other choice. If Sam died, then he'd bring him back and start all over again.

"Why fight it Sam?" Lucifer called out over the screams. "I know you want to say yes, I can see it. So again, why fight? I need you. Dean, God, no one else does. They only want you, to exterminate you. All because they don't believe in what I do. Tell me, where's the justice in that?"

Sam bucked his head back, producing a God-awful scream, as he felt a few of ribs break. Breathing became more difficult after that. Stupid bastards, they must've punctured a lung. That's what it felt like.

"Just say it! And all of this will be over," Lucie urged.

"NO!"

"Say it!"

Sam sobbed, panting for air. His chest was tightening up, the black edges of his vision becoming larger.

Death took out his weapon and sliced it twice across Sam's chest forming an "X". Sam shrieked at each stroke. "J-j-just s-s-stop!" he pleaded.

"Then say yes," Lucifer fumed.

Grimacing, Sam let out a tiny "no."

"It'll stop. It'll all stop. The evil, the horror, it won't last long. And then there will be peace. Salvation will come to those who deserve it, if you. Just. Say. Yes!" The body was now a pulsing orb of light.

Sam bowed his head down, done with the pain, the torment, and the psychological torment; done with his life of always running. He was drained physically and mentally. There was nothing left. Lucifer was right. Part of him wanted to yes and get it over with. Perhaps then all of this would end then. His eyes began to close.

"SAY IT!!!"

The door crashed open. Lucifer turned around stunned, the body engulfed in blazing light.

"Sammy!"

Sam's hope returned to him. He cried out, "DEAN!"

Dean ran in and aimed his gun at War holding Sam up. Letting off the shot, War flew to the side releasing Sam who fell to the floor. Death sneered throwing his scythe. It spun, moving at an inconceivable pace towards Dean. Cass reached out and caught it, the pointed end stopping at the tip of his nose. Taking it away, Cass threw it back, the weapon spearing the horsemen of doom in his shoulder.

Stunned, Lucifer turned to the bloody mess that was Sam on the floor. Exhaustively, Sam smiled, then said, "Go to Hell."

Unable to contain his power inside the fragile body any longer, Lucifer exploded, the vessel's body disintegrating with the light. An awesome power surge coursed through followed by an electrifying shockwave. The two horsemen disappeared before the wave hit them. Castiel stepped in front of Dean, shielding him from the blast.

Sam closed his eyes. The room exploded in shambles as the wave pulsed, shooting him out amongst the debris. He fell down two-stories, hit the veranda porch roof, rolled off and fell into the sodden grass.

The light died down. The dust settled. And everything was quiet again.

Uncovering his head, Dean peeked out from behind Cass, who stood with his hands splayed out as if he were giving thanks to the Almighty. He just kept quiet about the Almighty being MIA at the moment. He slowly lowered the angel's hands. Apparently Cass hadn't realized that Lucifer had skipped out. Surveying the scene, his body paused at the damage. The entire room was gone. Nothing but a hole in the floor, the walls, and hanging pieces of wood. No Lucifer. No horsey henchmen. No Sam.

_Shit!_

Where was Sam?

His feeling of shock came to an abrupt end. Barreling around his angelic friend, he raced back down the hallway and the stairs from whence he came. Castiel pursued after him. Barging through the screen door, he called his brother's name. "Sammy! Sammy. Dammit, answer me!"

Coughing in the distance was heard.

"Sam!" Dean ran off in search of it. It hadn't taken him long to find the bloody heap.

Completing a baseball players' slide, he reached his brother. Rolling him over, he took in the limp features and the pale reflection. Sam gazed at him tiredly through slits.

"Sammy," he smiled. "It's over. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here now. It's going to be okay. You're going to be fine."

He didn't like the opening and closing of Sam's mouth, and the pants for air. A hurtful pang shot through his heart when Sam cringed, gasping in pain. Dean pulled his head into his lap. "Cass. Cass, get over here."

The angel arrived by his side.

"Come on! Get healing," he ordered.

Cass shook his head. "I can't. I'm cut off from Heaven and so are half of my abilities."

"Bullshit, you gotta do something. He's dying!" Dean pleaded, looking back down. "No Sam. No Dammit," he shook him hard, "Keep your eyes open. Do you hear me? Keep em' up. I know you're tired, okay. But keep them open."

He saw his brother working hard. And it was only a matter of time before it was too late. Then that left only one option. Dean turned back to Cass. "Cass, get us out of here."

"Where to?"

"You know where," he said darkly. He didn't care if Castiel's method of traveling put a temporary cork in his bowel system. He didn't care if he ended halfway around the world or on another planet. All that mattered was that Sam receives medical care. Even if that left them all out in the open.

Castiel sighed. Placing his vessel's two fingers to Sam's head along with a hand on Dean's shoulder, all three vanished in a blink of an eye.

* * *

Sam appeared in a daze. The several gauze pads atop his chest reddened quickly. Red flecks decorated his face; large splotches covered his cut-up shirt and jeans. His body trembled from shock allowing a harsh cough to course through his chest. Blood spurted up, spraying the inside of the green oxygen mask attached to his face.

The gurney he laid upon moved fast. Nurses and Doctors alike jogged alongside it, shouting out orders and directions. At seeing the gush of crimson liquid fill the mask and run down the sides of the patient's cheeks, a red-headed nurse called out for everyone to stop. Ordering to lift him onto his side, the rest of the staff obeyed while she lifted the mask for Sam to spit out the mouthful of blood.

Dean stood behind them fixed with apprehension. His heart jolted at the blood flowing from Sam's mouth. Gritting his teeth, running the blood-stained hands through his hair, he watched. The worry and guilt were forces to be reckoned with, incapable of relenting.

The gurney was in motion again. Soon it disappeared behind a pair of steel doors. Dean slowly released his hands, panting.

A hand laid on his shoulder. He turned to see it was Castiel, and he sighed in relief.

At least he wouldn't go through this alone.

* * *

Hours and countless questions later, Dean and his feathery friend were allowed to visit Sam. The docs had warned them about the various stab wounds, the punctured lung, and serious bloodloss and that his little brother's appearance might come as a shock.

Surprisingly, it hadn't.

Sam had gained back some of the color in his cheeks, no doubt due to the blood transfusions. He was still pale and clammy. A tube was shoved down his mouth, taped at the side. A monotonous beep from a heart monitor sounded.

Guilt festered at the sight. Even though he knew it wasn't his fault. It was all out of his control. He just wished that this could've ended differently. He could've come up with another plan rather than running away.

Slumping in the chair, he was prepared for the long wait. That was until Castiel laid his hand on his shoulder once more. "You're injured Dean. You must go get checked."

Dean swiped the hand off. "I'm fine."

"No you are not," Castiel protested, "I can see your side is not fully healed. Go. I'll watch over Sam. That's not a friendly request."

Hearing the deep tone, Dean jolted out of the chair, mainly because he only had a small inkling of what this angel was capable of. He really didn't want to leave Sam again, but Cass was right. His ribcage was really bothering him. Giving a look of pure loath, though not at all meaning it, Dean left.

* * *

Cass was still standing vigilantly in front of Sam's bed when he came in about half and hour later cleaned up and with a large Ace bandage around his midriff. He felt little pain due to the numbing shot he was given. Slumping down languorously into the little chair on the side of Sam, he gazed back at the angel. "How's he's doing?"

"No change."

He sighed. "Figures."

"Dean. The Enokian sigils you are wearing should keep us under cover for awhile. But for how long, I am unsure," Cass informed.

Dean put up a hand. "Don't talk to me about that right now. All I want to worry about right now is my brother," he cringed, holding his side.

"Very well. You need to rest. I will keep watch."

"Fine," Dean acquiesced hanging his head off the back of the chair. Opening his left eye to a slit, he asked, "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"You may."

"I don't wanna…," he began tentatively, "I get the whole God thing. And I know I'm a pain in the ass about it…"

"Just a pain in the ass?" Cass retorted.

"Whatever," he rolled his eyes, "But um, I just wanted to know, why did you help? You left out of there like a sassy bitch, but then you saved me from being puppy-chow all over again."

Castiel took a deep breath. "It was against my better judgment. But putting myself in my Father's shoes, I questioned about what would He have done if He were in this situation. And everything I've read, everything I believe in Him, I know he would've helped you. Because deep down, I knew you were right. We could have stopped Lucifer, go down trying right then instead of relying on someone I can't find."

Dean saw that the angel was upset with his decision. And that it took everything the celestial being had to help. He failed to come up with a witty response realizing it would be inappropriate. He was appreciative of Cass's help, even if his brother's life was hanging off a thread.

"It might not mean anything to you right now Cass…but thanks. I couldn't have done it without you."

Cass nodded, keeping his eyes forward. Slowly but surely, the angel was developing more emotions by the minute. It wouldn't be long before he was human. "You're welcome."

Smiling, Dean achingly rose from his chair. "I'm going to get some coffee. Want some?" He received a look. "I take that as a no."

Trudging down the hallway, scoping out the hot nurses, he made his way into a break room. A table with two coffee pots and boxes of sugar and cream was in the middle of the room, a small television suspended up in a corner. A news-broadcast was on, the anchor reporting on the catastrophe at Dawson Cove. Taking out the pot labeled 'Regular', he poured the black contents into a small Styrofoam cup.

Suddenly the TV's signal malfunctioned, the visual image flickering. Dean looked up. The flickering increased violently before turning to static. That only meant one thing.

Dropping the pot, he ran out of the room.

Dodging the several nurses, doctors, and gurneys, his heart quickened at seeing the bright light emanating from his brother's designated room. The light flared and suddenly Castiel flew from the room, smashing into the hall wall. Dean skidded to a halt beside the unconscious vessel. Shaking him, the bastard would not wake. Hopping up, Dean peered into the room, shielding his eyes from the bright light.

His eyes adjusting to the volumes of radiance, he saw the shadows of two beings. Focusing on one, his stomach flew up to his throat at seeing it was the monster pain-in-the-ass Zachariah. The other one had to have been an archangel or someone. Witnessing the villainy grin on the angels face, Dean cried out, "NOOOO."

But it was too late. The angel touched his brother's forehead and all three were gone.

Dean fell to his knees. The utter clutches of despair gripped him tight. The angel's now had his baby brother. He was never going to see Sam again.

Looking to the ceiling, he cried out long and loud, "GOD!"

**Now don't hate me, but that's all I have. I don't know if I'll continue, but only if you want me to. So I'm leaving it up to you guys. It would be a tremendous help if you could give me suggestions. The more, the merrier. It all depends if you want more. If there's something you want to see, let me know and I'll work it in (just no Wincest, sexual abuse, or any of that bahogie, cuz that stuff scares me ****) Thanks a bunch! **

**And just FYI: the passage about the animals comes from Wikipedia. And most research I've done regarding the four horsemen comes from various sites all within Google. Cheers! **

**Joby ;P**


	4. Chapter 4

(Chapter 4)

**Hey there, I'm back. So, many people had interest in this story and wanted to see it continued. I'm glad to grant your wish. I do have a plan for this story now and I'll try to make it fun. As for this chapter, you all are going to need one hefty happy pill or a large banana sunday slathered in a lot of chocolate after this. Enjoy!**

An unnatural huff escaped past Dean's lips. The fast tidings of the Tuesday night vanished, giving rise to the following Wednesday and he took it with a dreaded gut.

Another day.

The sun was bright and the scenery was new, filled with green giving way for Summer, but it was just another day in his mind: the same as yesterday and the day before, only still without the hope of change; only still one more day closer to their impending doom.

Another road.

One long vast stretch of tarmac lay to the front. Windy, narrow, and littered with roadkill, but still it was just another road. Much like the black, pothole-perforated one he traveled yesterday, and the day before that…and the day before that.

Dean took a long steady breath, eying the roadway before him with agonizing torture.

This road, however, lay curved and spiny like an extensive black Boa, its cracks glittering like golden scales oscillating to a tarnished brown giving off a wavelike appearance; the end shining like a dot in the dawning sun. But he knew with experience waving like a black flag, once he managed to arrive at that little dot, it would only lead to more road, like one eternal trip to the Land of Oz. Only the wizard would say the journey doesn't end here. The journey would never end. The little munchkin dude would more or less point in the north direction and say 'that way, keep going until you run out of gas'. _Little fucker._

The Road. The various motels. The constant wandering. There was no change. No sign. No ensuring circumstance of any kind that stated his current predicament will swap for the better. And though yet he was still traveling.

He stole a glance at the passenger side of the Impala. It was still prominently empty, as it had been for the past several months. Expectation of the seat becoming occupied again left a while ago without the hope of returning. Never could he remember the time when his dwindling hope had completely vanished. Only that it did. It wasn't too long ago that the cloak of Loneliness draped over him. And it wasn't too long ago from then that he finally accepted it.

It was just he and his _Precious Baby on Wheels_—the Impala; the only other part of his family he had left—driving together in yet another clichéd version of the lonely ranger riding with his steed into some dawning sunset. He wouldn't have it any other way if this were truly what his life had become.

The world was ending and all he could think to do was drive. Driving was his reprieve; his escape from reality; his only source of running away from the problem. The way he looked at it, if this was what the angels wanted—the Earth being ripped to shreds, the demise of humanity and nature, just so they can finally have their paradise—if this was his prophesized destiny, then it's all theirs. They can clean it up. As far as he was concerned, he was finished. Tired, angry, and alone. The ability to care was unfathomable at this point. All he wanted to do was carry on driving, waiting for the end, for his peace to come.

At least then, he thought, he would be with his family again. Suicide wasn't an option, cuz he knew exactly where that would lead. And he wasn't planning on visiting that place anytime soon.

He glanced at the passenger seat again.

A pain deeper than any physical pain he had endured while alive and in Hell swept through his gut. The empty seat just didn't feel right. It hardly seemed the same even when he and Sam voluntarily went separate ways. He wanted his brother back. Safe. Unharmed. Even whiny and bitchy if need be. He didn't think facing the End alone was this difficult.

He felt it was more difficult, because this time he knew his brother wasn't gone on some soul-searching exploit…he was taken.

_Sam lay pale, flaccid, and death-like behind a gossamer veil._

Dean huff realizing it all started with an angel.

Well, actually, it really started with him dying and going to Hell. It was the said angel who had rescued him from the blazing pit and was repositioned back on Earth to be a soldier for God. Eh, as usual it didn't pan out that way. Some time in all the_ holy_ mess that eventuated in the previous year, Dean learned that it was he who had begun the Apocalypse. Since he, as the foretold righteous man broke in spirit and strength in Hell, he had broken the first seal that was the first lock to the Devil's cage.

Lucifer, the Fallen Angel, was sealed in a lonely prison. The first demon he created and his female compadre, Lilith, was destined to free him by sequentially breaking the specific number of seals it took to open the door. Dean, unknowingly, had broken the first seal in Hell causing a sort of domino effect for all the other seals. Thus Lucifer was freed when Sam broke the final seal.

Gung-ho and headstrong, striving to do the right thing, his brother selfishly took the advice of a demon—Ruby, who just recently had been revealed to be working for Lilith the entire time—and used his _demon-given_ powers to kill Lilith. What was believed on Sam's part in saving the world by killing the demon, he inadvertently caused it to begin by releasing the Fallen Angel.

But it wasn't entirely Sam's fault, nor Dean's. The angels, the celestial beings—having the reputation of opposing the Apocalypse and its demonic forces turned out to be rooting for it to occur all along. Using both he and his brother as pawns, the angels' scheme managed to work. And now, ever so abruptly it was revealed, it was prophesized that Dean was meant to be the War General, the Angel of all Angel's, the Right Hand of God's vessel: Michael. And later after that big message, it was revealed that Sam was meant to be the vessel for the Rebel, the Driving Agent for the End of Mankind: Lucifer.

Ultimately: brother vs. brother.

It was all bullshit in Dean's opinion. Destined or not. It was their choice. And because he and his little brother were obstinate about it, refusing to give in, it was the reason behind where he was now, alone.

Zachariah, a short time ago, had flown in implying what he wanted was to take Sam to keep him for some reason. In an attempt to escape the douchebag angel's clutches, Lucifer's fellow henchmen—the four horsemen, intercepted them. Captured, Sam went through psychological and physical torment all to give consent for the Devil to use his body. Luckily the boy was stubborn enough to hold out until Dean and his fellow angel-buddy Castiel came to the rescue. Lucifer, unable to acquire his new vessel, had fled, his current meatsuit unable to sustain his presence. Two of the remaining horsemen escaped as well. It was a relief on Dean's part, but they came almost too late. Sam was terribly injured.

Knocking on death's door, Sam sustained multiple injuries, laid up in the hospital. He was there for a short time before Zachariah arrived, knocked Castiel away, and took Sam with him.

_He seemed so doll-like, lying there on a pillow-white bed as though he were floating on a cloud. _

That was the beginning of the lonely dark road Dean found himself on. Passing a multitude of cow fields, courteous of the state of Iowa, implanted in the sodden soil were several red square signs announcing a local church's congregation at the beginning of the week. Closely following was a grand billboard sign that was blank except for the black lettering spelling out: **GOD? He is with us. Is he with YOU?**

Dean huffed. _God?_ Don't get him started.

And that led to the question, where was He? Or even if it was a he? How was it that He or She could stand by and allow his Angels in his Outfield deliver all the curveballs? If He truly existed, then how could He be pleased with the upcoming events? What was going on? Dean couldn't help but feel he had been thrown into the middle of a father-children lesson. Only the children were gaining one up on the father.

So far the angels have it within their minds that since Daddy was MIA, they might as well take over management themselves. They hadn't a clue of where 'the Man Upstairs' sojourned off. No one knows. There weren't even theories of it in the Bible. So where was He? Cass had said a while ago about there being signs around a particular town in the Mid-West that might have led to the Almighty's presence. Except when Dean on good faith arrived at the town, he found it to be a ghost town, empty and desolate. Much like the others he traveled to. The Trickster was right. The search was indeed awful, almost futile.

Shortly after the events with Sam, the Angels saw to it to throw another curveball. That was another shot to the heart, forever making a brand on his memory.

_His footsteps boomed loudly pacing the wooden planks. He waited ever so impatiently for his mentor to stroll back from the kitchen. Having not been at Bobby's house for ten minutes, already the floor was wearing thin. After the events at the hospital, Dean woke the conscious angel and within seconds he had arrived, running up the creaky veranda's steps. Biting on his thumb, stressed with worry, he contemplated the circumstances behind his brother's recent kidnapping, and pacing was the outcome. _

_Soon the squeaks of Bobby's wheels sounded and the man still clad in his hat and ratty vest strolled back out of the kitchen into his living space carrying a small jug of whiskey, handing it out. Dean took the jug greedily and downed a few sips, grimacing at the hot liquid burning through his throat. He was glad for it that it was actually beginning to calm him down. _

_Gulping down a few more swigs, Dean made his way to the dumpy couch stationed by the window. Slightly overwhelmed, he hunched over closing in on himself, waiting for Castiel to return, after the little man curtly said, "I'll be right back." Who knew what that meant? For all Dean knew, the angel took off to get a Latte. _

_After a few more swigs from the small canister, Bobby took it away, and took a gulp for himself. "Now tell me again," the old man asked again in his analytical tone, "what exactly did Zachariah say?" _

_Dean gazed wearily at him, then to the floor, not at all surprised. The way he relayed the events to his surrogate father could've compared to that of a highly specialized auctioneer. "He, uh…he uh said something about keeping him. Something about keeping Lucifer from getting what he wants."_

_Bobby looked on pensively, nodding. "Okay. That's actually good news."_

"_How's that?"_

"_It means that they won't hurt him. You say he was gravely injured, yes?"_

_Dean nodded stiffly, chewing the inside of his mouth when a sharp pain shot through his gut. "Lucifer did a good number on him. We were at the hospital when that asshat showed up. He was in real bad shape Bobby," his lip trembled, the shock beginning to take hold. _

_Bobby just huffed. "Just stay strong boy. Sam needs ya to stay focused. Okay, if they wanted him, that probably meant they just wanted to keep him from Lucifer," Bobby spouted off, "They won't kill him, cuz obviously that would be a moot point. Lucifer or someone can bring him back, just like you. So to me, that's what they're up to."_

_Dean looked up. "You mean to keep him as in on lock-down. Keep the treasure buried away so Lucifer can't find him?"_

_Bobby tilted his head to the side. "Sounds like it."_

"_But," Dean started to stand up, "That means they could keep him forever. Whatever it takes to keep Lucifer from winning since…" he trailed off, finally realizing why the angel's have gone this far. "Because I won't give consent." His eyes grew wider the more he began to understand the reason behind the supposed Good Guys rash action. "Because they don't have their general. They can't fight without him."_

_Not a word was said from the old man. He just stared unblinkingly, nodding gravely. _

_A whoosh of wings sounded and suddenly Castiel had reappeared. Both men nearly jumped out of their skins. _

"_I found him," the Angel said hastily._

_The shock coursing stronger than usual, Dean stood up shakily. "What? Where?"_

_The pair of steely blue eyes rounded on him. "It's difficult to explain. But they have him. He's safe."_

_Dean gazed stupidly at him. "Safe? I gotta have more than that man. What are they doing to him?" he wailed._

"_I'm not sure," Castiel replied. "Nor am I sure of what they intend. Zachariah is very restrictive and takes all the necessary precautions. I was close enough to feel his presence and I do know that he is unharmed."_

"_Where? Can you take me to him?"_

"_That would be unwise. Zachariah would sense us coming. Three Archangels are guarding the small unit where Sam is contained. He's not taking any chances. It would be wise for us to wait for terms…"_

"_Oh Hell no—"_

"…_Only until then we can understand what they want," Castiel continued, despite the harsh outburst. "If we try any rash action, then he might do something disastrous, out of desperation. The way he wants it, he does not want Sam on Earth. Lucifer is looking for another vessel as we speak. And in Sam's current state, he would be an almost too easy target."_

_A dangerous glare followed by an unmistakable darkness cascaded over Dean's face. "So what are you suggesting Cass? We leave him."_

"_Yes. For the time being. At least until…"_

_The door burst open with a loud clang. The windows exploded, shattering them all in bits of debris. A piercing howl suddenly rang, followed by a loud rumble. An incredible thud sounded on the creaky floor, plumes of dust lifted in the air creating a small circle. Almost like an invisible elephant's foot was stepping down. The two men and the angel looked on in despair, as the invisible force hop-scotched towards them._

_Dean felt the hammer-like force first. It hit him square in the chest, sending him back into the wall, taking his breath away. He landed partway on the couch, head slamming into the floor. The force went for Bobby next, tipping his chair over, and hurling the paraplegic man over across his desk on the far side of the room. Dean couldn't see what happened to Cass. All he heard was the scuffing of feet, the thud of when Cass's vessel hit the wall, and then a yelp, followed by a harrowing crash._

_Coughing at the heart-stopping throb in his chest, Dean looked up and saw a hole in Bobby's roof. The angel was gone, taken like one of the victims in _the Forgotten_. Shingles and broken fragments of wood fell from the top and it was then Dean felt torn in two. The force was gone, but so was another friend. _

_Watching a piece of wood fall to the floor, he couldn't help but notice a small thing sitting next to it. Crawling over, he found it was his Egyptian amulet; the gold piece glinting amongst the dust._

Thinking back to it, the memory only added more weight to his rapidly deflating heart. The small metal felt heavy against his chest. He missed it, but it never could it fill the widening hole. As the days went on, the hole in his heart grew bigger. Loneliness, Insanity, there was nothing else left but despair. The great memories the necklace invoked couldn't surpass the growing fortitude of depression. At this rate nothing could. Not as long as his brother and friend were still missing.

The Impala ate up the asphalt greedily, taking on the miles as though they were calories on a binge diet. He sped faster, the roar of the engine a harmonic sound on his eardrums. Then suddenly something changed.

Looking to the left and the right, Dean saw trash littered everywhere; large heaping piles of memorabilia scattered. Books, torn and shredded. Wasted beer bottles and red cups, along with busted black trash bags. Broken fence posts. Upturned pick-up trucks and horse and cattle trailers sliced in half, slanted in the ditches. Wires hanging lazily off lightpoles; sparks issuing from the two ends periodically.

He shook his head and the trash and all the mayhem disappeared from the roadside. Instead the ditches and long grasses were clean. The cow-pasture fence in tact. Then suddenly an explosion forming into a massive white and red and black mushroom cloud lit up to the northeast. The ground gave a great rumble. He shook his head again and it was then he let out a great sigh. With a heavy heart, he realized his vision will soon come to pass.

Not far from where his apocalyptic vision had occurred, a white and green-outlined sign loomed into view, reading "Volunteers for trash pickup" with a man stick-figure picking up particles. Dean huffed again. _What's the point? We're all doomed anyway?_

Very shortly after the events of Dawson Cove, all sorts of cataclysmic events transpired, adding into the tailspin of existence spiraling down the drain. National disasters. Mass suicides. Riots. Stock market plummeting. That was just the beginning. Soon—Dean hadn't a clue of how soon, but soon the vision of Zachariah's future will manifest. All the signs were in place.

And there it was, no motive to hunt, no motive to vent…no motive to live. He just continued to drive like an empty shell moving about non-changing in a readily changing, readily ending World.

_He raced forward. A strong forceful hand pulled him back from entering through the veil. His raw-biting desperate voice rebounded through the blank empty space._

Distant memories assaulted him from time to time, and he hated seeing them. It only reminded him of what he lost. He hated to sleep. A hodgepodge of flashbacks paraded in one endless stream. Dark circles stood out prominently beneath his eyes, as a testament to the little sleep he obtained. Sometimes he absolutely refused to fall under knowing what he will dream about will only make him cry. Every night, it was the same. Every night, he couldn't stop it. Resorting to the bottle hardly helped at all either.

* * *

The everlasting day soon faded off into twilight, dark falling quickly after that. A misty vapor settled along the way, the Impala's headlights hardly able to penetrate. Dean hardly took notice, continuing on towards a pointless destination. His emotions kept away, on standby. If he truly were to feel the weight that was placed on his shoulders, he'd crack. No doubt about it. But for now, he didn't want to think about the six billion people out there. In truth, he didn't think he could. If he couldn't save his brother, then what could he do? What was there to be done? Everything, obviously. But then how could he approach the first step.

He told his brother not too long ago to think positively. Try to save anyone they could from a horrible fate. But now, he felt hypocritical in that he couldn't follow his own advice. It all crashed down not too long ago when he realized for the first time he was just one man. The burden was too great to bear. It was too much responsibility. Times like this he often wondered if he should just give in. Consent to the General, and just let the inevitable happen.

But again, in times like this, the first thing he wanted to do was to get his brother back. It was like he was experiencing the Stanford era all over again. He'd then feel like he would function, knowing that Sam was somewhere not within the Angel's wingspan. It had been months since he had seen him last. Only God knew what was happening to him now. _God? Oh yeah…Maybe not._ The thought continued to settle in his gut like Ecoli. It made him nauseous, and unable to think.

Bobby had told him awhile back to keep fighting. But the ambiguity of that statement was greater than he even knew. So far Dean was fighting, fighting the demons inside about whether or not he was going to give up. And so far, he was losing the fight. It had been months too he last saw the old man. Even refusing to pick up the phone when he called or listen to the countless voicemails Bobby left behind. There was no point. By now, all he'd hear was a lifelong lecture about morals and manners about bothering to return messages, and he just wasn't in the mood for that.

He wasn't in the mood for anything anymore.

Turning down yet another long and windy road, secluded out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by brush and more timberland, he noted the gas tank was near empty and a certain chill had settled in the car. He reached to crank up the heat.

He wasn't at all prepared for what happened next. It began with a flash.

Blinding white light flooded the interior of the car and the roadway. A crunching sound echoed. And then Dean felt himself thrown forward, first glimpsing the hood of the Impala scrunching up like an accordion. A thunderous roar echoed as the white light became hot. Red hot. He screamed long and loud as the car tilted up and over onto its side, sparks flying as it scraped along the asphalt.

The roar resonated fiercely. The earth trembled; mini-waves of rock and earth undulating from the impact. The Impala continued to slide, off the road and into the dirt, moving at an inconceivable pace towards a big group of trees. Dean tensed for the crash he knew instinctually was coming. Scrunching his eyes shut, gripping the wheel like a dead man, his body shunted forward, as the top caved in. Soon the momentum died off, the car bending slightly around the large hardwood.

The effulgent light died down, the roar it made softening. And soon it was quiet. Real quiet. A painful throb pulsed in Dean's head, followed by spikes of pain spreading throughout the rest of his body, escalating with each second.

But he waited. He waited for the vision to pass. One second. Two seconds. Ten. The pain was still there. The growing weight behind his eyes built. Smoke issued out from his Baby's hood, then soon faded into a wisp. The sweet hum it made cutting off, the car ultimately dying a swift death. He opened his eyes fully, still waiting for this nightmare to end; fearing the dream wasn't a dream at all.

Something trickled down his head, his arms, his side, and his legs. He moved his fingers up to his head, bringing them back and seeing the two inked in red. The vision was not passing. And it was then he realized he was still awake, living in his own nightmare. The light from the outside pulsed through the splintered windshield, creating a lightning effect through the cracks.

Then soon his eyes drifted to a close. And he dreamed what he feared, what he had been dreaming for months. He dreamed of the last time he saw his brother.

**I know what you're thinking? What the Holy Hell have I done? Kill the Impala. I wouldn't dare, but I did it for a reason. Hey Kripke did it! And it came back. Fear not, it will be resurrected again. **

**Okay, now I understand many of you do not like to see Dean as depressed as I made him out to be. To justify that, in my story, I've made him that way for a reason. Oh yeah in the Show, no doubt he probably would've kept going, fighting every big bad from here to kingdom come. But not in this story. You'll know why in the next couple of chapters. He will lighten up, I assure you. The next one will be up soon, and Sammy makes an appearance. Cheers! Thanks guys! **


	5. Chapter 5

***Cringes Sheepishly* Sorry about the wait. I hadn't received a big response for the last chapter, so I wasn't quite sure if everyone wanted this to continue. But as I promised I would, here is the next update. **

**Now during the 100****th**** episode, if you happened to have heard a loud tremulous shriek of "YES" when Dean offed Zachariah, I apologize…cuz that was me! Glad the smuck bought it. However he still exists in this story. He may or may not come face to face with the axe, but we'll see! Cheers!**

**Previously:**

_Blinding white light flooded the interior of the car and the roadway. A crunching sound echoed. And then Dean felt himself thrown forward, first glimpsing the hood of the Impala scrunching up like an accordion. A thunderous roar echoed as the white light became hot. Red hot. He screamed long and loud as the car tilted up and over onto its side, sparks flying as it scraped along the asphalt. _

_The roar resonated fiercely. The earth trembled; mini-waves of rock and earth undulating from the impact. The Impala continued to slide, off the road and into the dirt, moving at an inconceivable pace towards a big group of trees. Dean tensed for the crash he knew instinctually was coming. Scrunching his eyes shut, gripping the wheel like a dead man, his body shunted forward, as the top caved in. Soon the momentum died off, the car bending slightly around the large hardwood. _

_Something trickled down his head, his arms, his side, and his legs. He moved his fingers up to his head, bringing them back and seeing the two inked in red. The vision was not passing. And it was then he realized he was still awake, living in his own nightmare. The light from the outside pulsed through the splintered windshield, creating a lightning effect through the cracks._

_Then soon his eyes drifted to a close. And he dreamed what he feared, what he had been dreaming for months. He dreamed of the last time he saw his brother. _

~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~o()o~

**Several weeks earlier:**

A slurred curse resounded behind the counties' main bar.

Feeling lost and dejected, stumbling in a drunken state, Dean, with a bottle of Jack in hand, moseyed on through a back alleyway in search of his car. Having lost in spirit and in poker, there came a point in his inebriated mind that sought the comfort and peace his car usually provided. Not entirely sure where he had last parked _her_, his boot-clad soles continued on in whatever direction, hoping to at least find some parking lot.

When his quest soon came to a halt at the towering height of a brick wall, aggravation and frustration flooded through in one quantum flux at his inability to find his way through. Angrily chucking the bottle of hot whiskey, he spun around and continued on in the opposite direction, huffing and issuing out useless threats. Warm moist tears pooled at the brim of his lids, obviously frustrated at his frustration and other things, further settling himself in the cesspool of depression.

It was cold. And it was dank. The alleyway behind the bar stunk of rotting meat and garbage, assaulting his nasal cavity with the familiar tinge of bad body odor, and had with it an eerie devouring setting. He wanted out. He wanted away, his numb mind taking over the rest of his lingering senses desperately in search for clean air. But it wasn't the nose-hair singing smell he yearned to escape from…it was his life.

For months he had been searching for his brother, and his angelic friend, both who were kidnapped, and for months, he had yet to make a dent in his search. Many times he raised his voice to the sky, screaming till his vocals were raw and raspy, calling out Zachariah's name, calling out to Micheal, calling out to anyone who would listen. And the more times he called, the more times there would be no answer, no response…just silence. So now all that remained was to fall into a drunken stupor every night, praying, hoping that someday all of this will change.

Beeping issued from his cell located in his back pocket alerting the fact he had a voice message waiting. But he ignored it, much like he had been for the past few weeks. Often he wondered why he kept his cell on his person, when nine times out of ten he won't answer it on purpose. More than likely the beeping belonged to Bobby. No one else had managed to call and leave a good twenty voicemails on a daily basis like the old man had. He wasn't in the right mindset to speak to his mentor, and most likely wouldn't be for a long time.

His stilted, zombie-like steps finally led him away from the dark and gloomy alley. To the front was the small bar's gravel parking lot, and alone, in the middle of the space was _his baby_, his precious commodity on wheels, and his very own carrier to his soul, the Impala. Glistening like beaded pearl in the overhead lamplight, the Impala shined like a beacon welcoming him back. However much he was wallowing in hate, rage, and oppression, the sight itself often brought a meager smile to his tense face.

Running a hand smoothly along the back panel, he said, "Hey girl. Ya missed me? Well I'm back, and now it's time to get going."

Dean smirked again, hoping that his senses were still functional enough to drive. Without another thought, he slid into the front seat not at all aware of the passenger grinning with a toying look.

"So I hear you've been trying to get a hold of me," came the wretched chill-inducing voice.

Dean jumped in his seat turning a wide-eye on the intruder and gasped, overwhelmed by the influx of hatred and relief in seeing the pesky Angel-in Charge, Zachariah. Before he had time to utter a single word, the grubby fingers found their mark on his forehead and he was enveloped into a bright light.

The phosphorescent lighting dimmed a second later, along with the nauseating weightlessness. Feeling his feet hit solid ground, Dean buckled from the impact sprawling onto his knees, coughing and gagging. The alcohol found its way back up his throat, and he had a hard time in keeping it down.

Footfalls suddenly alerted his attention to the black loafers skirting by. He looked up to see Zachariah smugly strolling past with his hands behind his back smirking in sheer delight. Glancing past the pompous holier-than-thou individual, Dean saw nothing but incandescence, a brilliant glow emanating around causing him to squint. The air was crisp and clean. He could almost taste the dampness to it as he scrambled to his feet trying to discern his surroundings.

He was in a room. Or perhaps it was a room. It was so bright, it was difficult to distinguish where exactly was _here_.

"What the hell is this place?" Dean asked, shielding his eyes.

"Oh! Sorry about that," the snob angel chided with that annoying sardonic smirk, snapping his fingers.

The lighting instantly died to a normal shade confirming Dean's earlier suspicion that the strange space was indeed _a room._ The walls were embroidered in a tarnished brass with curvy engravings etched into the plaster; the floors consisted of a chalky marble, beautiful yet slippery, and there at the far end was a large four-poster bed, enswathed in white translucent drapes.

Dean committed a double take catching a glimpse of the figure lying on the bedspread. Edging to mere feet away, recognition beamed in his dull greens and his heart immediately jumped up his throat causing him to gasp. It was his brother. Sam lay pale, flaccid, and death-like behind a gossamer veil. He seemed so doll-like, lying there on a pillow-white bed as though he were floating on a cloud. Nothing it seemed could have awakened the sleeping individual.

Overcome with shock, Dean raced forward. A strong forceful hand pulled him back from entering through the veil. His raw-biting desperate voice rebounded through the blank empty space, calling out to his brother enshrined behind the billowy drapes just as a haughty chuckle echoed, overbearing his cries.

He threw off the hand and ran forward anyway. That was until he reached the drapes and smashed into what felt like an invisible glass wall; the impact knocking him onto his backside.

"Sorry about that, but no can do Dean," Zach said, coming to a stand beside him. "You're brother is well protected. Nothing but I…or you know one of my superiors can get through."

A deep-seated glare was set on the tall man. Dean refused to let it up even as he slowly made his way back up onto his two feet. "Then why'd you bring me here?" he asked dangerously, rubbing his wrist, which now took on a menacing ache.

Zach turned to him, still with that unbearable smug smirk. "You said you wanted to see your brother again. Well, now you can see him."

Dean became strangely calm still staring longingly at the sleeping figure. Mutual feelings of resentment and relief coalesced into one unique mix, and Dean became confused by it. For so long he had been yearning to see his brother once again, and now here he was…in front of him, not dead…or was he?

Zach chuckled some more. "Ah don't worry, he's not what you think he is," the Angel passed through the drapes and took a seat, picking up one of Sam's lax hands. Dean growled at that. "He's just in a deep sleep. He was pretty banged up when we brought him here, and so we feel it's necessary to keep him…well, sedated. He'll be good as new in no time."

Though it wasn't implied, Dean already understood what that meant. They were keeping Sam asleep because had he woken up, he would cause a great deal of trouble. Trouble neither side was in the mood for dealing with. He might have been proud, had he not have been so desolate and heart-strung lately. It was good to see Sam whole and still in recovery, rather than in pieces like Anna had suggested once. Who knew what these douchebags do for fun?

Zach patted his sibling's chest. Sam made no move. No flinch or even a twitch as Zach replaced the hand back onto his stomach. It bothered Dean, because he knew that if he were lying in that position, he'd have at least convulsed with disgust knowing that Angel touched him.

"He'll be fine," Zach went on. "He's just here for safe keeping, that's all. As long as Lucifer roams the pitiful waste of land below searching for a new vessel, Sam stays here. Not a single hair on his head will be harmed, scouts honor," he raised a hand in the air pointing only his index, middle, and ring fingers.

Dean huffed. "I don't buy that."

"Well get used to it kiddo," Zach retorted, his big ogling eyes darkened. "As long as you decline our offer, being pig-headed and moronic demolishing destiny's path for us all, we can't take any chances. I'm sorry it had to come down to this, truly. But desperate times call for desperate measures, I'm afraid."

Dean said nothing, now holding his throbbing wrist to his chest. He figured out a while back the reasoning behind the Angel's move on his brother…and it didn't help his growing depression either.

"We'll be in touch with you later," Zach called out.

Before Dean could say anything, disapprove, protest, or even utter a single syllable, the smell of gunpowder and the sight of the leather interior flooded his senses. Blinking owlishly at the Impala's steering wheel, regaining back whatever sense that temporarily left him after blinking out and back into existence. Anger rose up within him like a deadly viper uncurling for the strike and he struck out. At the dashboard, the radio, the steering wheel; anything within reach that will cause pain. Gritting his teeth, he let out a behemoth roar of frustration, the Impala's insides rattling greatly—any louder and for sure the windshield would crack.

It just didn't seem real. The sudden drop in. The quick "Hi" and "Bye". He had been hunting down that Angel for so long, for him to finally show up for a brief moment, to taunt him about seeing his brother, to say "Back off because you're not getting what you came for"? Perhaps it didn't happen at all. Perhaps it was a vivid hallucination, or dream his alcohol-induced mind created to give him a fair peace of mind. However, the fall felt real enough.

Sitting there in his driver's seat, Dean contemplated about what had just occurred. It all had seemed so real. Maybe it did happen. He wasn't sure. But the fact remained that if it had occurred, then he was one less step closer to getting his brother back. If Sam was safe and sound as Zachariah had mentioned and showed, then it'll probably be the roll of the dice before Sam ever showed again. Without Castiel around, there was no one else with celestial powers he could trust to help him take on a rescue mission. Lucifer is out there now searching for another suitable vessel, and if he were to find said vessel, then they all would be back at square one again. Either way, the chances of ever reuniting with his sibling were slimming drastically. And Dean was tired.

Before him was a long dark road. Igniting the engine, Dean threw the car into gear. Wallowing in terms of oppression and hopelessness, he hit the gas taking on the long endless road. He was done, tired and wrung out. If Zach was right, then there was nothing else left to do but drive?

**Don't worry, we'll be getting back to what Dean is up to. But for now, I wanted to show you what Zach had been doing with Sammy. Nothing much, but there is a lot more coming up, I promise you. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey Ya'll! Again, sorry about the wait. Hope you enjoy! There's a bit of a surprise at the end of this chapter.**

**Previously:**

_Blinding white light flooded the interior of the car and the roadway. A crunching sound echoed. And then Dean felt himself thrown forward, first glimpsing the hood of the Impala scrunching up like an accordion. A thunderous roar echoed as the white light became hot. Red hot. He screamed long and loud as the car tilted up and over onto its side, sparks flying as it scraped along the asphalt. _

_The roar resonated fiercely. The earth trembled; mini-waves of rock and earth undulating from the impact. The Impala continued to slide, off the road and into the dirt, moving at an inconceivable pace towards a big group of trees. Dean tensed for the crash he knew instinctually was coming. Scrunching his eyes shut, gripping the wheel like a dead man, his body shunted forward, as the top caved in. Soon the momentum died off, the car bending slightly around the large hardwood. _

_Something trickled down his head, his arms, his side, and his legs. He moved his fingers up to his head, bringing them back and seeing the two inked in red. The vision was not passing. And it was then he realized he was still awake, living in his own nightmare. The light from the outside pulsed through the splintered windshield, creating a lightning effect through the cracks._

_Then soon his eyes drifted to a close. And he dreamed what he feared, what he had been dreaming for months. He dreamed of the last time he saw his brother. _

**Now:**

A noise, such as that of released steam, sounded.

Tiny wisps of smoke unfurled and rose high from the broken and dying engine. Though apparently dead to the world, the Impala hissed, signaling to whomever or whatever she still sustained the breath of life.

She creaked and moaned, her metal scraping along the rough edges of the Sycamore's bark. The leeward side of her deformed body swayed, partly lifting off the ground from the hit of the gushing wind. The Impala loudly hissed some more, its creaks growing in length and volume, crying out to her owner.

The comet blast in which wrapped her around the tree had died; its spine-chilling roar waned to a dull hum, the ground rumbling at its rhythm. Softly shaking in tune with the vibrations in the soil beneath her, the Impala tried once again, issuing out longer and louder chirrs and scrapes, grinding the frayed metallic strips until it coalesced into an on-going symphony.

It was hard in waking the man wedged in between her bent wheel and the busted door. Any harder and she swore he was dead. But she knew it couldn't be true.

For she was alive as long as he was. Her heart beat with his. Her soul was entwined with the estranged man, having created the bond since he was a child. So she knew he hasn't left just yet.

The Impala groaned some more.

And at long last, her driver had finally heard her call.

Slowly, achingly returning back to consciousness, Dean's eyes fluttered and closed again on purpose. Traveling back from the sojourns of his dreams was a near impossible task he didn't mind stepping back from, especially if he knew what reality he was facing. Anyone in his or her right mind would have wanted to stay, and die in peace.

His eyes attempted to open once more, the long lashes beating against the tan and bruised flesh. Their tiny spikes sent spurts of pain, reactively jolting his lids open giving way to a gray and bloody film. Blinking rapidly, his vision finally ceased to blur and the cracked windshield focused into view where instantly the bitch of reality came rushing back and he remembered the crash.

Lost in an amalgam of pain and confusion, time for him was a fickle thing incapable of comprehending.

Had it been minutes? Had it been hours? He couldn't tell. It wasn't like he had checked his watch before the whole Armageddon meteor hit officially clocking him out!

It was still nightfall. The Impala was hissing. And a steady trickle of blood seeped down his temple and into his right eye. That was all he knew.

Wiping away the flow, that's when he realized he was lying on his side, plastered against the broken door with long tufts of dewy grass jutting into his cheek.

"Ah shit," he murmured attempting to sit up. His head swam and he relaxed for a moment longer.

Peering up again at the splintered glass, his heart began to splinter too. Hearing the billowing steam, the cracks in the pounding muscle grew deeper finally breaking up into fragments, having realized he lost another family member.

The car squeaked alerting him she was still there.

But he couldn't hear it this time. Several wails involuntarily escaped, and in his misery and grief began pummeling the wheel. Hot and breath-taking pain shot through his palm, but he didn't care.

This was all too much. His brother. The angel. And now his car? This was all too overwhelming.

He stopped the abuse after a few more well-endowed hits, once his hand was screaming it couldn't take any more of the abuse either.

Emitting a soft apologetic _sorry_ to his baby—the car creaking in return—he glimpsed at the other door, whose glass was cracked. Seeing no other way out, he reached for it, happily ready to escape.

There was only one problem.

One glimpse down below and the game was over. His legs were well snug under the bent wheel and the caved in dash, firmly wedging him into place. Wiggling as much as he could, stifling a cry of pain at the action, it was confirmed that he was, well…stuck.

"Fucking shitballs on a fiddle stick! Why does this keep happening to me?" he screamed in a rage. "This is such bullshit!"

He wrestled some more, eventually succumbing to exhaustion and pain. The blood continued to flow and it only pissed him off. How was he going to get out now? He had no unearthly idea where his phone was and even if he wanted to make a call, it wasn't like there was service out in this neck of the woods.

He sighed, coming to the conclusion that nothing short of his wit and a miracle was going to get him out of this seat, let alone the car.

"Dean?" a husky voice called.

He perked up. _You gotta be shitting me!_

"Dean!" it called again.

Dean blinked again. "Cass?" _No fucking way!_

He couldn't believe his hears. Perhaps he had hit his head worse than he thought? He saw movement across the glimmering glass, and he instantly recognized the tan trenchcoat. "Cass? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me."

"How the…what the Hell dude? Where've you been?" Dean asked irritably.

"Long story," came the short reply. Next there was a knocking on the broken glass, "Can you get out?"

"No," Dean sighed, part flustered, but mostly relieved. "Unless you got a pulley and a jack, I'm gonna need some of that zappin' action."

He waited ever so patiently for the instant bowel-corking mode of transportation, but it never came. Instead the Impala groaned some more, and suddenly showers of glass sprayed over his face as the dash pulled away. He looked on in shock at seeing the hulk-like strength the angel displayed in tearing his car apart to free him.

Once the engine half of his ride was pried away, Cass threw it to the side, and then reached in, pulling him safely out. "There. You're out."

Dean's mouth fell agape, his legs doing a certain jelly dance, while his other senses seemingly were going into overdrive. His baby! Now it was more like a shredded carriage!

Forget having survived another killer car wreck, he wanted to tear the angel a new one. But as instigating that doing so would probably be the make a very bad day and a lot of broken bones, he resorted to blowing hot air and glaring to the best of his ability. _So much for patching her up!_

Cass, however, shrugged off the callous stare, and gazed at his charge peculiarly. Squinting, he said, "You've changed."

That deserved an eye-roll. Dean huffed at the ridiculousness of that statement. "Oh that's nice! No 'hey, it's been awhile', or 'I just escaped from rotting depths of Hell, but I'm happy to see you Dean'…just 'you've changed?'" He blustered," No shit I've changed Cass. I'm just freakin' peachy."

As suspected, the angel continued to gaze at him with those doughy baby blue eyes, the sarcasm bouncing off as if he were made out of rubber. "Don't give up Dean. We still need you more than ever."

"Talk about needing someone," Dean snapped back, "Where the Hell have you been? I thought you were a shis-ka-angel!"

"No, I was not a…a…_that_. I was imprisoned. They sensed my presence from afar and tracked it. And it positively confounds me why they hadn't just killed me, but I escaped just now. I don't know how, but I'm taking strong caution," Cass informed.

Without answering, Dean briefly nodded in response. It was all he could think to do. However angry he was with Castiel destroying what was left of his car, the mere sight of the lost companion was soothing to his broken heart. Besides, delivering a lashing to his one and only friend with magical benefits wouldn't help solve the more pressing issue.

What exactly was that blast?

He took a gander around him and found nothing. The trees were in place, the roadway appearing normal, Swiss cheese-like with many potholes, but the air was chilled, crisp even. Fog billowed out with every breath, and he knew that couldn't have been normal…considering earlier the temperature was in the high seventies.

Dean turned back to Cass, who was walking away, already gained a couple of yards. He limped to catch up. "What the hell is going on Cass? What was it that just bulldozed into my car and nearly put me in a hole?"

"That's what we're going to find out," came the poignant answer.

"What?" Dean exclaimed.

"I'm not sure what caused the blast, but I do know the source of it is up there," Cass pointed up over a hill that looked to be a good half-mile away.

"And we're just…casually going on an exploration mission to find it?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful," Dean made a frown, facing the fact that there really wasn't any other choice. Despite a little scared, he really wanted to know what totaled his car too, that way, whoever or whatever it was could feel the full effect of his size eleven shoe. "All right Dora, lead the way."

Panting and spitting, mouthing curses along the way, Dean followed the nerd across the road at a lope. Castiel, probably in anticipation, was speeding along the turf like he was in a roller-derby. As much as Dean wanted to shout to him to slow down, he zipped his trap shut, also in eager anticipation of seeking out the nuclear blast extraordinaire.

Climbing up the distant mound of dirt way back in the past would have been an easy breezy flight, but with the energizer bunny on steroids next to him, Dean was finding the climb to be a strenuous chore. Any minute now his body was about to go kaput.

That was until they reached the top of the hill.

And there, Dean froze, his overdriven senses officially reaching critical point.

There was a figure several yards away turned away from them, overlooking the vast scenery, bright phosphorescence surrounding the man's outline obscuring most of his face. Dean's gut clenched at recognizing the tall build, the square shoulders, and the shaggy hair.

"Sam?" He gasped. His feet suddenly took on a mind of their own and were running forward. "Sammy!"

That was until Cass pulled him back, "Dean, wait!"

"What? Why?" Dean asked bewildered, but he grew tense when Cass suddenly had a look as if he had just seen a Great White Shark and he was the helpless seal.

"That's not Sam."

Dean shot him a wild confused glance. "What are you talking about?"

The nerd didn't answer, but slowly began to walk…no, creep forward. Cass took a deep breath and then said, "Michael."

Sam slowly turned his head in their direction. The shine in the mossy green eyes clearly expressing _it_ wasn't Dean's lost little brother.

**Uh oh! Oh, again what have I done? I understand it might not be plausible for this to happen, and especially how Kripke's storyline regarding Lucifer and Michael is over with…but yeah for this story, I wanted to spice things up a bit. Anyways…**

**Okay guys, here's the thing. **

**As you probably have guessed, I'm having severe motivational issues with returning to this fic. And currently I'm in doubt if I want to finish this. I strongly apologize to all of you that have reviewed and have waited so patiently for this to continue and I appreciate everything, I do. But I have to be honest. I confess that it is purely my fault in that I started this storyline without a plan, and so have taken so long in order to get it going. And in so doing, probably have taken away the promising potential this could have had. **

**Now, I don't mean to harp, or to sound like an ungrateful bitch that does this solely to get reviews, but the responses for the last couple of chapters haven't been big. Now I don't know if that means the story now is crap (which it probably is due to depressed Dean and all) or that it's not interesting anymore. So I'm asking you now if you guys want me to finish this. If so, then I'll devote a lot of time to this storyline and get it over and done with. If not, then I'll just let it go. I'll leave it up to you guys!**

**Again, don't mean to bitch, but I need to know what you guys really think of this. Also again, I thank you for reading. Cheers!**

**Joby :)**


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